She's the Tear in my Heart
by littlebabeswan
Summary: Sometimes forever is just one second.
1. She'll Be His Wings

She's the Tear in my Heart (1/2)  


Summary: _Sometimes forever is just one second._

Modern Day AU / mash up of different holidays with everyone's favorite trope: neighbors.

Two-Shot

Written for my CSSecretSanta- SnowBelleWells

find me on tumblr - littlebabeswan

* * *

Storybrooke Maine is, and always will be a town stuck in it's ways. It seems cursed, in a sense. A constant cycle of the same people doing the same thing everyday of every week. He knows everyone-and they know him. There are no secrets, no tourists, no change. He can't even recall life outside of this small town, having entered it when he was just a small boy. It's the life he's always known. The comfort of familiarity is too strong for him to move. He likes it here, he guesses.

He wakes to a biting chill nipping at his exposed skin, he huffs and buries himself further into the soft blanket - urging the day to pass on without him. He stares blankly out the window at the frost that's creeping along it's edges - willing for it to dissipate with his glare. His alarm sounds a few minutes later, he dismisses it and stares idly at the date.

 _December 1st_

The passing of time is inevitable, he supposes. But a part of him always wishes to skip over this month. He can already feel it blooming, he can almost hear the distant bells and the gentle murmuring of the townsfolk as they bounce from store to store in search of gifts for their loved ones. He can smell Mary Margaret's home-made cookies and pies, and he can taste the bite of the rum burning the back of his throat.

He shoves the thoughts of the impending holidays to the back of his mind and rises. He flies through his morning routine on autopilot and heads out, turning to lock his door as he does every morning.

But something is different.

The house across from his has always been abandoned, a fact that he and Milah liked. The idea and almost secrecy of these two quiet houses tucked away in the woods kept them feeling like it was their own private part of the town. It was just far enough away from Main street to be away from it's buzz, but close enough to be within a comfortable walking distance of it. They had eyed the house he's now living in for years. As teenagers they'd sit on the stoop and dream of nights by the fireplace that they had seen peeking in through the window. It was always meant to be theirs.

And the house across from them was always, always empty.

The rickety 'For Sale' sign used to creak and groan from old age. They had carved their initials into it when they had first found this paradise. They had thought that maybe their kids would move into it when they were older. But today that familiar sign was gone and in it's place was a small lawn sign marking the property as sold in bright red letters.

Another piece of her is gone.

Like time, he knew it was inevitable that Milah would begin to fade. As weeks turned into months and then years he knew that her death would eventually become nothing more than a faded whisper amidst the town. But to him it still felt fresh despite the passing of time.

As he stood facing the house, staring at the blatant change with a sense of disbelief and a slight pang in his chest-the clock tower chimes notifying him that it's a quarter past eight.

Meaning he's late. He's never late.

He mulls it over on the walk to Granny's, rather- he curses silently at whoever dared to intrude on his quiet neighborhood while kicking at every stone in his path. He can't fathom who would buy the house, everyone knows that he lives across the way. And everyone he knows has a place, a home, a family.

Days pass and no one seems to know anything about the mysterious purchaser. Which is odd.  
Word spreads quickly without him having to utter a single thing about it. He listens, quietly observing. It seems as if everyone is almost excited about it. Which again, is odd. Mary Margaret seems utterly distressed that she is in the dark about it, and Granny seems equally as uncomfortable that the faceless buyer's identity hasn't reached her yet.

It isn't until the 5th that he notices it.

The bright yellow eyesore that is now parked outside of the house, that is.

He narrows his eyes at the metal death trap, noting the Massachusetts plates and the loose front headlight. There are boxes in the backseat, and a dreamcatcher hanging from the rearview mirror.

The clock tower chimes marking it's a quarter past eight. He's late. Again.

He marches over to it and settles the headlight back into it's rightful place - considering that he is already behind schedule. A hazardous infliction that would bother him immensely if he had to continue to stare at it from now until eternity every time he leaves his home.

He enters Granny's eager to share the development with David come noon. He nods at Leroy, smiles at Archie, moves past Sneezy with careful precision and makes his way to his barstool as he does every morning. He stops halfway to his destination. A strange woman he does not know is occupying his seat.

It's not like they have assigned seats at the diner. This isn't school. It's just-it's always been _his_ seat.

Blonde hair peaks out from beneath her oversized, black beanie that has a precarious pom pom resting atop it. Her gloved hands are holding a steaming cup of something as she reads over a newspaper. She's all leather and hard edges, he finds-regarding her muted red jacket and boots that end at her knees. She must feel him staring - for she looks up to meet his steely glance with a raised brow and slight frown. He quickly casts his glance to Ruby who throws him a knowing smirk before cocking her head to the empty seat at the end of the bar.

He settles into it feeling out of place and frazzled by the morning disruption. She seems rather unfazed and completely oblivious to the quiet, whispered conversations around her about her. She leaves a few moments later and he takes the opportunity to slide easily into his seat, smiling to himself at the small victory. Ruby rolls her eyes as she settles his usual breakfast in front of him.

"Change is good y'know." She says as she pours his coffee.

He rolls his eyes in retort.

Change is never good.

-;-

It becomes a pattern, though. Despite his best efforts to avoid the newcomer she manages to weasel her way into his daily routine. Random sightings of her blonde hair buried amid that ridiculous beanie and flashes of red leather nag at the corners of his vision. Her yellow, obnoxious car welcomes him each morning on his way to work and he yearns to kick that bloody headlight back out of it's place just out of spite.

He catches sight of her full form at the grocery store while he's with Mary Margaret. Dragged along to collect various and unnecessary amounts of food for David's birthday party.

He watches her over the small displays housing various fruits as Mary Margaret gushes about the impending festivities. He notes how she grimaces as she passes the vegetables he's been poking at and settles in front of the dessert case, idly pointing at various sweets that the cashier procures for her.

"Her name is Emma." Mary Margaret whispers, tearing him from his thoughts as she looks to him with a knowing smirk. "She's David's deputy and your neighbor…. and _very_ much single"

He figured as much, but the confirmation sits well with him for some reason. And perhaps Emma suits her, and her yellow bug and affliction for various colored leather jackets and all things caloric and sugary.

The change is a little less unsettling.

-;-

He decides on a whim he's going speak to her. Well…if not speak, at least let her know of his existence. Partially due to Ruby and Mary Margaret's insistence, and mostly due to the fact that it is the neighborly thing to do.

He paces in his dimly lit living room debating on how to approach her. He stops midway through his inner debacle and scowls to himself at the way he's acting. She's been tucked up on her stoop since he arrived home earlier this evening, slowly nursing something he can only assume based on his recent encounters with her is sweet and bad for her health. She seems rather preoccupied with the fading sunlight casting shadows on the street.

He's not staring or stalking. Just…casually observing her from behind his closed blinds. (Okay, maybe it is stalking. But his reasoning seems sound. He's ensuring he won't be intruding if he is to approach her.) It's Tuesday, and he knows that the trash pickup is Thursday but he decides in that moment that it's the only fitting way to strike a conversation.

He lugs out the bin and drops it at the curb. He stands by it awkwardly for a few seconds, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stares down at it. Her voice breaks through the silence shaking him from his inner monologue of self-doubt.

"Hey, is tomorrow trash pickup…?" She calls out to him. She's standing now, with her arms wrapped around her middle protecting herself from the slight December breeze.

All of his rehearsed conversations leave him the instant he catches her eyes. He hadn't noticed the shade they were in the diner. It throws him for a loop as he opens and closes his mouth, searching desperately for something to say instead of gaping at her like a fish out of water.

It's only then, after a painful few more seconds of awkward air between that he realizes how stupid he is. Of course she wouldn't know that the pickup is Thursday. And now-well now he has to come up with an explanation for it and he can't think properly because her eyes are green and her hair is catching the sunset in just the right way and she's sort of breathtaking in every sense of the word and-

"No!" He shouts far too loudly before he realizes the word has already left his mouth. .

She stares at him for a beat.

"Then why…uh.." She directs her hand to his bin as she begins to descend the stairs of her stoop. A slight smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Before she can come any closer he quickly grabs the handle and wheels it back into his backyard without saying another word to her.

He peeks a glance at her once he's safely back inside through the blinds once again. She's still standing in the place he left her, midway down her stoop looking terribly confused by their exchange before she turns with a shake of her head as she retreats back into her home.

He hits his head against the wall repeatedly.

(He's an idiot.)

He makes his way over there a few hours later, after nursing his ego back to health with a glass of rum and a firm inner ass kicking. He knocks on her door gently-redemption is all he seeks, and he'd rather not have her assume she has moved in next to a sociopath.

She answers after a few moments-in which he almost turned around and ran back home.

"Hey..." She hesitantly says, keeping the door only slightly ajar.

He smiles-rubbing at the spot behind his ear out of nervous habit. "Hi."

She raises her eyebrows, keeping herself planted behind the safety of her door.

" - the Pickup is Thursday. The trash pickup."

She smiles slightly, "oh, okay…cool."

"Yeah so. Just so you know." He shoves his hands into his back pockets feeling like an idiot all over again, moving his weight from one leg to another.

She smiles further, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. "Thank you for telling me….uh…?"

Another pause, before his brain clicks that she doesn't know who he is despite him knowing who she is.

"Killian Jones-I live across the way." (Idiot idiot idiot) he shakes his head realizing that it's quite obvious where he lives.

"I sort of guessed that." She says with laughs, quite a gentle thing before opening the door wider. "I'm Emma." She extends her hand and he accepts it.

He nods - his hand lingering in hers for a moment to long before he realizes it-awkwardly pulling away and quickly retreating a step backward-"so I'll be seeing you then."

He trips over the last step on his way down- her laugh rings in his ears once again. "See you, Killian."

Change is good.

-;-

The pattern of monotony continues with the added brightness of all things Emma. Starting with small waves exchanged after catching the others eye during their brief encounters from across across grocery aisles. Moving to small smiles that are passed as one enters and the other exits the diner. She becomes his favorite part of his routine, and it's strange that he finds himself looking forward to their brief and breathless 'hellos' and 'goodbyes' between their busy days.

It's the eleventh that he finds himself stood outside of the once prosperous pumpkin patch that now houses lifeless pine trees. All dying, cut at their roots standing in line ready to to plumped and pulled and weighed down with obnoxious ornaments.

It's quite depressing, really.

"I think it's a weird tradition." He is taken aback by the sudden sound of her voice and slightly stumbles trying to collect himself. She too is peering at the trees with a slight scrunch to her nose, the familiar oversized beanie hanging low over her eyes.

"I mean-why?" She asks, stealing a glance up at him despite the hat blocking half her vision. (It's not adorable or anything.)

"I'm with you on that, love." She moves towards a smaller tree, one with feeble branches and a stout stump. A Charlie Brown tree, truly. She plays with the brown branches, humming slightly to herself a tune that is decisively not anything relating to a Mariah Carey Christmas hit.

"You should buy that one. It looks like it needs a good home."

She turns to him, a sad smile forming as she continues to play with the frayed edges of the tree. He knows that look well, the look of what the word home does to someone who's never had that. (He did, maybe once. But it had long since faded with Milah in her passing. The last traces of that feeling, that magic that she bought were taken and buried with her.)

"I never really celebrated Christmas before." There's words beyond the ones she's spoken, he knows. A story tucked deep inside her that is all too familiar.

"Ah well, you've moved to the wrong town then." He nudges her shoulder with his, trying to lighten the mood that somehow took a left turn. Her smile returns then, the sadness in her hiding safely within her worn edges. A facade he knows well.

She ends up getting it.

(Not before Leroy wielding an axe demanded she pay twenty dollars for the damned thing. He somehow managed to have him give it to her for free. The genuine smile that graced her face was worth the risk of him losing a limb.)

He insists on carrying it back for her snug on his shoulder. It's quite a walk, but the silence that erupts between them isn't awkward. He mulls over a few questions he wishes to ask her, but before he even has the courage to ask one they're already back.

She thanks him as he hands over the tree and bids him goodnight.

The smell of her perfume lingers as he settles onto his couch.

Change, once something he loathed now seems to be all he craves.

-;-

It's later in the week that a knock erupts the silence of his Saturday. A day he usually spends waiting to for an appropriate hour to indulge in rum while watching the news on low.

It's nearly noon, and he thinks perhaps that it's David who's come to drag him from his hole into town for his wife's annual holiday festivities. Of which include gingerbread house making, caroling, and faking smiles. The thought of it had always nauseated him, and he knows that Mary Margaret knows he never attends.

He opens the door and finds Emma standing at his doorstep instead, donning what he can only assume is one of Granny's handknit sweaters in replacement of her leather jacket - but her infamous beanie is in it's rightful place low over her brows.

She waves a gloved hand at him, and he smiles at the sight of her.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" He says with a slight chuckle, still eyeing the soft pink sweater with dancing snowmen across it's middle with amusement.

She rolls her eyes and huffs out a sigh as she tugs at the hem. "There's this thing in town. I uh-Mary Margaret asked me to come. Are you going?" She casts a glance over his shoulder into his home, making note of his boring life he's sure. He moves to block her view.

"I didn't really plan on it."

Her face falls slightly, and she makes a move to leave- "Oh, okay-yeah well. Okay."

He contemplates it for a moment more. "But-yeah. I can go."

"Oh-yeah? I just-don't know anybody…yet. Or you, really. But-I just thought it'd be uh-less painful -not painful just less….weird if I -"

"Understood." He says with a smirk. "Come in-I just have to get my jacket."

She steps in warily, hovering in the front hallway not wishing to truly invade.

"All the way in, love."

She hides the blush on her cheeks by ducking her head and stomping off the snow from her boots. She moves in further, keeping her arms crossed.

"Got a rustic vibe going on here." She notes-gesturing with her head to the vintage furniture.

"Just a bit." He replies, wrestling on his jacket. "My wife was into it."

Her eyebrows raise in consideration-and he bites at his cheek for even mentioning Milah.

"Divorced?" She asks carefully, moving to look further at a vase he hates but can't summon the strength to depart with.

"Widower actually."

She turns on her heel, eyes wide- "shit-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

He waves at her to settle and her shoulders fall in slight relief. "It was a long time ago."

She nods-and for once he doesn't have to hear someone apologize for his loss. It's …refreshing almost. The lack of pity she has for him. He likes that.

He figures she knows loss, too.

Having never attended he is surprised that literally everyone in town is somehow crammed into the town square. All bustling about from one activity another. He grimaces at the small children who run past, causing a ruckus while high on sugar and happiness.

Nauseating indeed.

Emma seems just as overwhelmed as he is, but she smiles regardless.

Mary Margaret approaches them with open arms and tears in her eyes. Nearly running over two toddlers on her way over to them.

"Killian! You came...with Emma!" She sounds as if seeing them is the greatest Christmas gift she could have ever received, and when she pulls them both into an awkward three-way hug he doesn't mind the way Emma's hair tickles at his ear or the feel or her hand crushing against his chest. She holds them in her death grip for a moment more before releasing, taking turns staring at them with deep affection. "I'm so happy you're both here. Together"

She urges them both to join the gingerbread house making contest, or rather demands them to. "Ten minutes. Don't be late."

Emma's eyes have yet to settle back to their normal size as Mary Margaret retreats back to her stand of baked goods.

"If we make a run for it now I've got a bottle of rum and on-demand." He whispers to her.

She slaps his arm and despite the roll of her eyes he senses that she favors that option.

But they stay.

They are up against some 'stiff competition' according to Archie, who looks like he does this in his spare time even not in December. Granny looks about ready to murder the gingerbread as opposed to carefully constructing a house. And Emma, well-she looks as if she's determined to win, which surprises him.

"You're going down, Jones."

He cocks a brow at her, noting the fire in her eyes and the authenticity of her glee. "We'll see."

He steals one of her gumdrops and pops it into his mouth, she steals one of his in return.

"It's only fair" She says, her mouth slightly red from it's dye.

A part of him wonders...

"Go!" is shouted before his thoughts wander to far into uncharted territory.

He loses by a landslide, and Emma wins much to Archie and Granny's dismay. She nearly crashes into her creation when they announce it out of excitement. She wins a bloody medal and spends the rest of their time in the square reminding him of his defeat by shining it with the sleeve of his shirt.

They meander through the dwindling crowd, the light of day fading slowly as the hum of excitement becomes to dissipate. He enjoys the way her arms swing slightly, as she glances up at the sky to watch the bit of snow that's beginning to fall. He can count the freckles that are scattered across her nose from where he's standing-, a perfect strew of her own constellations amidst the lines of her face that travel down beneath her jaw. She's wearing his jacket, arms tucked into the oversized pockets, zipper high to her chin-, nose burrowing every now and again into the warmth of it. She catches him looking, and shoves him a bit for it-

"What's on my face this time?" She asks, removing her hands from the warmth to wipe at her cheeks.

"Frosting? Chocolate?" She continues, moving to swipe at her other cheek while peering at him. He moves his thumb across the corner of her lip, wiping at an invisible marking.

"You're good now." She settles her face back into his jacket, hiding from him the blush he still sees despite her best efforts of keeping it from his view.

Mary Margaret finds them just as they're edging out, giving them each one last hug and an assortment of leftovers to share, she made sure to enunciate that part. She gives his arm a squeeze, accompanied by a knowing look before shooing them off.

He walks her home, holding the three boxes of cookies and pastries. Emma eats five on the ten minute walk home. He only manages two before his stomach turns. Partly due to the influx of sugar, mostly due to the way her cheeks flush in the cold December air and the way her smile has yet to leave.

"I think this will make a great topper to my tree." She announces, once again holding the medal up for him to see. He rolls his eyes in mock hurt.

"It will make a wonderful addition, love."

The streetlights fade behind them as the move further towards their dark dwellings. He thinks perhaps hanging some lights would solve this issue. He never minded before walking towards the darkness. But he worries about her, some small part of him does. He worries about her getting home late and alone - and...Storybrooke is safe and she is the deputy and she has made him quite aware that she can handle anything but-

He worries. And lights-lights would be good.

"That was...fun." She comments once they are stood in the street facing their respectives homes. "I had fun."

He pulls her beanie down further as the wind picks up despite the unnecessity of it.

"Yeah, it was."

She smiles, fiddling with the boxes - he searches for something to say to extend their time together, but words fail him.

"You should come over, maybe. To see my tree, I mean."

He kicks at the snow that's beginning to collect, fighting at the blush he knows is creeping up his ears that he can blame on the cold if she notices. "Yeah, I'd like that."

She takes a step back, still facing him. "I'll...- yeah. Goodnight, Killian."

She turns fully, stomping up her stairs in true Emma fashion. Waving at him once more before stepping in through her door.

He unburies the box in the attic marked 'X-MAS' that has collected years of dust and neglect. He works on arranging the colored lights through the night despite the snow falling and his ladder nearly failing to hold him up. It's ends up looking a bit crooked, a bit droopy, and far from perfect. But it illuminates their street a fair amount, and the worry doesn't pinch as much at him.

He leaves a spare set on Emma's porch. He knows she'd be rather displeased if he assumed she couldn't handle the matter herself.

It's a much needed change.

-;-

Mary Margaret is more than eager for him to spill whatever it is that is happening between Emma and him over dinner some evening mid December. Assuming that there is something in fact happening. Which there is not. She loads a helping of mashed potatoes onto his place all the while adding a _dash_ of dropped hints about how _beautiful_ and _kind_ that Emma Swan is.

Swan, it seems, is a perplexing last name. But it comes together in his head, - the puzzle he's been solving in regards to her.

"She seemed rather taken with you." Another dollop of gravy. "She is a really great addition to this community." An ungodly amount of peas fall onto his plate. "Don't you think so, David?" She looks to her husband to add to the list. Like any man faced with a question from his wife when he's not paying attention Dave nods and smiles in response.

She turns her attention back to him, David carefully raising his brows in warning to abide to his wife's demands.

"She's...interesting." Is all he manages to spout in between his forkfuls of roast. Mary Margaret is more than satisfied, taking his answer as an agreement to the previously stated.

She politely commands that he bring Emma leftovers, wrapped neatly with a side box of her favorite delicacies. Something unholy looking called a bearclaw of all things, a fitting name if you ask him. Though he doubts that an actual bearclaw could match the mammoth size of the pastry. He takes the bundle, still warm in his hands and delivers it.

She's all smiles when she opens to the door and sees him, eyes immediately drawn to the warm bundle in his arms. She's wearing a loose t-shirt that falls graciously off her shoulders exposing her collarbone. His eyes trace over it, following its jagged form down to the peak of a tattoo hidden just above her heart. Her hair is free from the beanie he has always seen her in, falling in messy waves and tangled curls over her shoulders. Her soft features illuminated by the lights now strung along her porches beams.

She invites him in and they settle on her couch sharing the massive sweet that makes his gums numb and tongue feel funny. But she's laughing at something he's said, and it's a sound unlike anything he's heard. It reverberates through him, rattles his bones and soothes the aching feeling in his heart that he never could find a way to fix. (Until now.)

It feels different here in her home with a dying, frail tree between them and jokes being tossed. It's never been easy for him to have a conversation after Milah's passing. There's always been that lingering pity in people's eyes as they grip his shoulder and wish him well and hope he's doing fine as if insisting that he is not.

It feels different when their hands accidentally meet to adjust a falling ornament that she had procured from a shop on Main Street. Small trinkets that overwhelm the tree and make it sag further, but despite it's dreary look Emma thinks _"it looks...good"_ (the slight hesitation is evidence of her lie, but he agrees regardless because it's quite a sight.) Her smile at his reassurance of her lie reflects the unspoken words that they both seem to be terrible at saying.

She rises to procure the medal that's hanging victoriously on her coat rack near the door, buried under her various winter wear. She hangs it atop the tree;-causing it to further sink in a dreary fashion. But she claps her hands together at the finality of it, beaming at it with child-like glee. _"Now...it looks fucking fantastic."_

It's only after he's lit a fire for her, and she's tucked the food into the fridge, and the TV illuminates some terrible romantic comedy that the silence falls over them. It she who breaks it,-some time later when he's fixated on watching a commercial.

"I've never had a friend before." She whispers when the night has taken hold and the fire he had lit is now beginning to fade. Her head resting on the back of her couch, arms and feet tucked up under the blanket she had retrieved for them. He pulls a bit at it, and she reluctantly sacrifices some of the warmth for him to join her. It's quiet here, now. The confession thickening the air between them.

"Sorry you got stuck with me." The mood lightens again, something he seems to be good at as of late.

She kicks his thigh gently with her wool clad toes in retort. "You're an idiot." She says with a roll of her eyes as she burrows deeper into the cocoon she has now formed for herself.

"Aye, but I'm _your_ idiot."

She kicks him harder. It's good here, with her like this. It's good.

He's happy.

-;-

He sees her after work one day, hot chocolate he now knows firmly wrapped in her grip. They walk in tandem down the busy streets, waving at familiar faces wishing them a happy holiday. She stops in front of the toy store that Jefferson owns. A wide array of handmade stuffed animals flood the window case. A swan sits delicately in the front row, it's small eyes looking at them through the glass.

He has taken a liking to nudging her shoulder, for he enjoys the way she huffs at the invasion and the nudge he gets in return. The smile that forms on her lips is always the reward for the small intrusion of her orbit.

"You share a striking resemblance, eh Swan?"

She gapes at him before punching him firmly in the rib. "Asshole."

He rubs at the spot, before moving his hand to rub at his ear. She sticks her middle finger up at him and continues down the road, leaving him in her wake. He jogs to catch up, she laughs at him and how out of breath and out of shape he is. And there it is, that sound again. The sound that chases the chill away and gently chips at the guard around his heart.

He looks to Milah in his days of doubt leading up to Christmas. Stood at her grave with a bouquet of her favorite flowers.

(He knows Emma's favorite, now. Buttercups and Forget-Me-Nots.

 _"Because the name, I guess."_ she had told him.)

He asks Milah for forgiveness in that moment, forgiveness for moving on, for living - for forgetting.

The same nagging tug at his heart creeps it's way back in as he stares at the patch of dirt. The demons have a way of dancing here, of getting into his head.

"I'm sorry." He says again, laying down the flowers. "I'm sorry."

-;-

Christmas is always a grand affair in Storybrooke. Mary Margaret hosts a large dinner party at Granny's for the lost souls like him and for the families who aren't well off enough to have a grand feast with presents for the wee ones. He has Emma's present tucked in his jacket. It took him four tries to get the wrapping just right. Not that he'd ever admit that.

A part of him doesn't expect her to be there. But a part of him hopes…

He enters the diner already ready to go home. But amidst the crowded diner filled with familiar faces it's hers he finds first, in _his_ seat with a smug grin on her face once their eyes meet.

"I can see why you like this spot." She chides, wiggling a bit for emphasis.

He doesn't mind that she's occupied his assigned seat.

Not in the slightest.

Because when he's next to her, watching her down spiked eggnog and eat Granny's lasagna with enthusiasm, it's all he really needs to feel content in the seat to her left. Air is something they both need after a few hours of forced socializing and Archie interrogating Emma for a solid twenty minutes on her design structure for her gingerbread house. She looks to him after he starts questioning how she managed _sixteen gumdrops_ without the roof caving and he happily pulls her away.

It's a feat in itself to get to the exit; it requires lots of pushing and a healthy amount a gagging over witnessing Granny and Marco snogging by the door. The cool air and sudden silence relaxes his tense shoulders. Emma nearly collapses in relief at a table out front in the empty patio under the hanging star lights. _All I Want For Christmas_ is a dull roar in their ears as the sit in the now quiet night air.

She scoots her chair a bit closer to his as she reaches into her jacket for something hidden.

"I got you something-...it's stupid." She begins with a bite of her lip and a ducking of her head. "I've never-uh... Here." She tosses the unwrapped gift into his lap, and he lifts it to see that it's a beanie, more fitted than the one she favors. "You seem to really like mine. So."

He pops it on, and she adjusts it accordingly. Her nose nearly brushes his as she leans forward to fix the stray hairs at the nape of his neck that must be peeking out. His breath catches when their eyes meet in that moment - she pulls away after a beat, keeping a relatively safe distance.

He takes the time to tuck that stubborn curl that always falls in her face behind her ear and thanks her for the gift by handing her his. She seems a little baffled by the intricate bow and careful folding work he had done and maybe he shouldn't have tried so hard because she rips it to shreds in an instant.

"Oh," a careful whisper to the night he barely hears as she takes the swan and holds it to her chest.

"It's-"

"Stupid," he finishes. "I know."

She leans forward and hesitantly wraps her arms around his neck in a feeble attempt at a hug, he thinks. She's tense until he settles his hand onto her lower back, rubbing small circles with his thumb as he savors this rare moment of touch between them.

"I've never gotten anything -"she begins, a murmured mess of vowels against his skin. He continues rubbing her back in silent confirmation that it's all she needs to say for him to understand. She pulls away when it becomes too much, too intimate, too close. And he knows that tug, that feeling of not enough but too much all at once.

So he lets her go.

(The lingering scent of her peppermint shampoo and white chocolate breath clings to him.)

He learns three more things about Emma Swan that night.

She has a particular affliction for Christmas Songs, despite her claiming she despised them. Perhaps it's the eggnog talking. Or singing, rather. Karaoke, specifically. In front of the diner. With Ruby.

And he knows that it's not because they are good that everyone is staring. He scowls at Will for his lingering looks at Emma's legs- and nearly punches the lights out of him when he comments on _"how good she'd be in bed."_ He settles for a swift kick to his shin and a slap to his head for talking about her in such a way. Mary Margaret seems even more satisfied with this development.

After their third encore she settles into a booth with him. It's then that he learns then that she's an orphan. A swift conversation with a slight divot- _"I never had this growing up. You don't really get in the Christmas mood when you're an orphan. Oh, are those nachos?"_

She devours the cheesy concoction as fast and as swiftly as she steers the conversation into a different direction, divesting him any time into digging into what she had just said. She's clever in that way, in the sense that she reveals fragments only to have them hidden again-leaving more questions than answers.

The last thing he learns is that she is quite taken with his ears of all things. She finds their points to be quite humorous. It's when she's pulling at his earlobe...and her thumb ventures down to the scruff that lines his jaw that he feels his heart stutter and the sudden and undeniable urge to kiss her.

(He doesn't.)

Mary Margaret manages to snap a picture of them in that stolen moment of quiet bliss-the world around them spinning as they're sat still. It's a polaroid that she tucks in his chest pocket on their way out. She shoots him one last smirk before waving them off.

It finds a home on her fireplace, next to a piece of the tree that had died three days prior and been deposited on the curb on a Thursday. She says she likes the way his hair is messy- _"It's looks...-extra poofy. I guess. Grungey"_ even though he notes the way her eyes linger on herself, on the smile she seems to reserve just for him.

Christmas ends with him tucking her feet up on her couch with her swan in hand and water on the table next to her to evade the hangover that is to follow. He makes sure the blanket is covering any and all of her exposed skin, she swats at his hands to settle - telling him she is _"fine and warm and okay -jeez."_

He smiles down at her half lidded eyes fighting to stay open, pushes that stray strand back behind her ear once again before wishing her a Happy Christmas.

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it in silent thanks.

It's all he needs.

-;-

New Year's Eve approaches quicker than he had anticipated. He's spent the majority of the lull between the two holidays traversing from his place to Emma's. Fixing her apparent leaky faucet or fickle lightbulb that tends _"to like, flicker or whatever_ " so she claimed. He finds that her house is indeed fine despite her insistence for his help, and he is more than sure that she is capable of fixing a lightbulb.

(It's only after observing her stomping on _"_ a _damn creaky and super creepy floorboard"_ in her kitchen that he finally realizes she's coming up with excuses for him to come over. He relishes in this fact, and plays along with her charade all the while acting as the helpful handyman. They finally exchange numbers after he insists that it will save her the long walk from her place to his. She punches his shoulder when she catches what he has set her picture as. It's a swan with it's wings raised looking ready for battle.

(Much like the Swan standing before him.)

She has his set to an anchor.

"Coz you like the sea, right? Got a boat and everything." She's mocking him, he knows. But he likes the way her tongue rolls along her inner bottom lip and her eyebrows raise playfully.

"A _ship_." he corrects. "She's a ship."

She rolls her eyes dramatically, and raises her hands in surrender. "Ship...right. Sure." She narrows her eyes as her lips curve into a smirk. "Which is technically a boat-"

He pulls her beanie down over her eyes. Reveling in the sound of her laugh echoing through his halls.)

He's got a bottle of rum already open, and Mary Margaret's cookies open and ready for consumption. He's content with spending the holiday alone, watching New York from his couch. His phone beeps once he's halfway through his first drink, it's nearly eight and he can already hear the town buzzing.

 **E-** _hi it's emma from next door_

He smiles while rising from his spot, peering out the window to see her living room light is on.

 **K-** _Not going on tonight?_

The three dots appear in an instant, which makes him smile.

 **E-** _nope._

She ends up coming over. Hauling a fine array of food that he's sure Mary Margaret has supplied her with and her poison of choice-tequila. She makes herself comfortable on his couch, occupying most of the space with her legs stretched and her arms resting over her head. He's scrunched in the corner, peeking glances at her every now and again. Because he likes her like this. Stretched out and at home in his home. Making herself no stranger to his fridge or glassware. She yawns just as 11:59 rolls along, and he wonders …

 **Ten ...**  
She's chosen to sit more appropriately now, eagerly staring at the screen with her knees pressed to her chest in anticipation. He thinks he likes her.

 _ **Nine ...  
**_ She's taken another shot, now. Urging him to do the same, her eyes are a different shade of green tonight. Bits of amber line the edges of her irises, flecks of gold mix and mingle with a bit blue just towards the center. And her hair is up and falling and he sees now the small tattoo that hid underneath her layers. A small swallow.

 _ **Eight ...  
**_ Liam used to tell him stories of a swallow's meaning. A sailor would have one swallow tattooed on his chest before setting out on a journey, and the second swallow tattooed at the end of their tour of duty, upon return to their home port. If the sailor drowns, the swallows will carry their soul to heaven. Swallows. A symbol of home.

 **Seven ...**

His chest feels tight and the air around him feels terribly limited quite suddenly.

 _ **Six ...**_

He knows all at once in this single moment of terribly timed, utter clarity that he undeniably likes her.

 **Five ...**

And he wants to kiss her.

 **Four ...**

He's going to kiss her.

 **Three...Two...One…**

The moment is missed.

He settles for the bitter taste of rum as opposed to her lips.

-;-

He finds her hunched over in a booth, scowling, tearing up sugar wrappers and fiddling with the salt shaker. She seems out of sorts and disgruntled, and he knows that perhaps it would be best to avoid the storm that's brewing in her corner but alas - he seems rather well versed in faring the worst of what she can bring.

She shoots him a sharp glance before offering up the seat across from her. She tosses a balled up piece of paper at his head before settling her head into her hands with another huff.

He smiles when he opens the paper - now ripped along the edges and over creased. It's a flyer for the school dance. Specifically the _Valentine's Day_ dance.

"David says I gotta go - to chaperone or whatever." She continues to assault the sugar wrappers as she idly steals a look up at him.

He hums in response, toying with the bent edges as she starts to make designs with the sugar.

"Wanna come? I mean- to like...save me from dying of boredom."

He smiles then, watching her tuck herself further into her crossed arms on the table-looking anywhere but at him.

"Swan, are you asking to be my Valentine?"

She's quick to rise, throwing a swift punch to his shoulder from across the table.

"Watch it, Jones."

She's fighting the blush creeping up delicately from her chest to her cheeks, furiously pulling her hair into a bun as she resumes her sugar designs.

"Despite your apparent love of hitting me, I'd be more than happy to join you."

She makes a show of rolling her eyes in the most grandiose manner before throwing another round of wrappers at his face.

She looks beautiful in red, he discovers when he arrives at her door later in the evening with a single buttercup. He tucks it into her hair to hold back that curl and she tries hard to fight from smiling. She tells him _"you clean up good."_

He holds back on telling her that she's stunning and instead settles on resting his hand at the base of her back when he walks her up the stairs of the school. Settles on holding the door for her. Settles on pulling out her chair when they go to sit.

It's enough for her.

They find a spot on the bleachers an hour later, just as the kids start twerking or what have you, and grinding and dancing to god awful music that shouldn't even be considered as such.

She pulls out a flask from her boot and he whispers _"pirate"_ into her ear as she hurriedly passes it into his grip before telling him to _"shut up."_

"I bailed on high school." She says after some time, the lights bouncing off her skin. "I guess I couldn't come up with a reason why I should stick it out when no one gave a shit if I showed up or not." He passes the flask back to her and she takes a swig of it, toying with the lid, "That's what I do best. I run."

The music is suddenly muted, the world around them an apparent blur as they sit trapped in their own sphere of mutual silence.

"Why are you still here?" The question reverberates through him, and he wonders for the longest time about why he is still here. Living in the same town. With the same people. The same job. The same ghosts haunting him.

"You had no reason to stay. I had no reason to leave."

She plays with the petals of the flower still resting atop her ear, regarding his answer carefully.

The silence returns but feels different this time, more weighted-

She grabs his hand before he can dwell on it.

She asks for a dance- _"because I've never been to one of these."_

His hands find a home on her hips. Hers, flat against his chest.

"So this is cheesy." She notes, scrunching her nose as they sway haphazardly through the crowd.

"But Swan, you adore cheese." He retorts, which earns him a firm slap to his shoulder.

"One of these days, Jones,-I _swear_." She heaves a dramatic sigh and rests her head against his chest, mumbling something about being _'tired'_.

He'll keep the claim of her lying to himself.

-;-

Three weeks later, when he's over fixing a _'god forsaken wobbly knob'_ on her _'piece of shit'_ stove he notices the buttercup, now wilted and void of color still living next to their framed polaroid.

-;-

Spring comes in bursts and waves; typical for their east coast town. The cool mornings mean sweatshirts are still a necessity, but by the afternoon it's sweltering. Emma has since retired her beanie, much to his dismay, but he finds he is particularly fond of the way her hair looks in a loose bun.

(Slightly reminiscent of the pom pom he notes to her one day, toying with it slightly giving it a gentle tousle. It earns him an elbow to his gut and a flick to his ear but it was worth it nonetheless to see her laugh in such a way. He has gotten several bruises since meeting Emma Swan. All of which are tiny reminders of him breaking through her walls. )

He hadn't noticed her cheekbones before, or the faded remnants of an old scar on her neck. He has taken a liking to the way the sun kisses her nose and deepens the color of freckles that he fell in love with back in December. He gets acquainted with her summer skin, the way the swallow seems to be free from it's wintery confines beneath the leather she seemed never to rid of.

He can get used to it. Because change, he finds, is rather good.

-;-

He's perplexed to see her one morning taking a trowel and hitting the earth outside her home in an ungracious manner. She seems on a rather fixated mission when he approaches, and worries for only a moment that he is next in line to be bludgeoned. She doesn't notice him at first, and continues her seemingly useless hammering before she looks up, blowing that curl he loves to twist in his fingers out of her vision.

"Jones." She says as she gives the earth one last firm patting with the tool. "Nice day huh? Hot as shit."

She throws the trowel in something he can almost call defeat (but he knows she loathes that word) and rises, staring down at her 'work' with pride.

"Cool huh?" She remarks, gesturing to the hole she'd been hitting at, "It's for plants, and stuff. Plants, flowers...y'know. Green stuff."

He tries and nearly fails to hide the laugh that's bubbling at the back of his throat, because he's never seen her quite this happy in the time he's known her.

(If only he knew making her happy involved allowing her to repeatedly hit something, he feels he would have made a lot more progress with her much faster.)

"S'wonderful Swan. Truly a marvel."

She must notice the slight sarcasm to his tone, because seemingly in an instant the trowel reappears as a weapon in her grip and is being raised in a threatening manner to his head.

"Try again, Jones." She's got that smirk on her face that screams trouble, and he knows better but a part of him loves this game.

"Hate to say it, love. But I don't think you were graced with a green thumb."

She rolls her eyes and gives his chest a hearty poking with the trowel before lowering it. She sighs and contemplates the hole once again before kicking at it halfheartedly. He senses he's pushed a button, and takes the time to slip the tool from her grasp into his own.

"Let me show you…?"

They spend the day like that, kneeling over patches of dug up earth planting seeds and flowers. All of which she insists on calling _"the blue one err I mean...cyan whatever, right?"_ or _"you mean the one that's sticky and gross?"_

She's got a real knack for it, he finds by the end of it...even if she cannot name any of them.

"It's just a lot less hitting and more digging, love." He says as she marvels at their work.

"Careful, you now know I'm good at hitting."

Her eyes wander over him steadily, a flush rising in her cheeks when she notices that he is noticing.

"I knew that previously." He tilts her chin up from its lowered stance and holds her stare with his. Taking the time in this rare moment of touch to wander his thumb over it to find that divot in it that he is fond of. He rubs over it once, twice, before it becomes too much.

"Just making sure," She bites at her cheek, nudging his hand away.

It seems rather fitting.

He has a lot more digging to go with her.

-;-

Their friendship has evolved, so much so-that she now shows up at his place unannounced. And far too often, not that he minds-he comes home from work to find her at his kitchen table, laptop out, glasses that she fails to rid of that he has fixed countless times falling precariously down the bridge of her nose, sipping hot chocolate in the dead heat of summer as if she too lives here.

She raids his closet some nights when she slips from the living room to change, deeming a sleepover quite necessary because _"it's too late to walk all the way back across the street"_ to her own home. She favors his cotton t-shirts that are folded neatly in the top drawer of his dresser, that her wandering hands have somehow invaded.

She's a vision in them, ridding herself of jeans and leaving him the view of the long stretch of her legs. It's in those moments that his eyes wander as she lays atop the makeshift bed he's created of his couch-and it's in those moments he finds his own wandering fingers tracing lines across the tattoo that's etched along the top of her foot _"sometimes forever is just one second"_ the cursive reads, faded from age.

And it's in those moments that he indeed feels as if this bit of forever he seems to have with her may only last just that.

-;-

Three A.M. is a dangerous hour for anyone, sober or not. Words seem easier to compile, tongues feel looser, hearts feel heavier. It's something about the air, he thinks. The lingering hesitation of dawn-, the last flittering of stars across a hazy night sky that has turned from grey to muted pinks and soft blues.

He's awake in bed, unsure of what to do with himself because sleep is eluding him.

The stairs creak and groan beneath his weight, and he flinches at every noise that echoes hoping not to wake her. But she's up, sitting cross legged on the couch eating the ice cream he had bought earlier. He rolls his eyes at the sight of her, staring blankly at the TV as the colors from the screen bounce off her. She takes notice of him when he's on the last step, blushing slightly as she closes the lid to the ice cream.

"Don't let me interrupt your fun, Swan."

She pats at the spot next to him while relenting some of the blanket. "You aren't interrupting. The best shows go on at this time."

He learns after settling in next to her that by shows she meant infomercials.

"Love,-these aren't-"

She shushes him with a firm kick to his thigh and a gracious hand falling over his mouth to silence him as her eyes stare widely at the next item.

After an hour of sitting through it, and grabbing her phone to prevent her from purchasing expensive and unnecessary china shaped like penguins, she clicks the tv off and stretches. She's daring at this hour, he finds once she utters _"tell me about her."_

He staggers at first-, but it's late. And he's not so guarded. And the story that's been tucked up in the back of his mind is easier to recall.

She listens with quiet intensity, and he notes that her own story,- the one he's been slowing pulling out of her appears to be on the edge of her lips.

In the months he's known her he's never found her to be as beautiful as she in now. Eyes creased from the smile that stretches across her face,- void of makeup or leather, her armor laid to rest at the door. Her hands always lingering, finally daring to move and smooth over the the callouses rings have left beneath his fingers. He fits them between her own, giving her hand a squeeze before brushing his thumb against her palm. Her eyes grow heavy as he continues, he leans and brushes a kiss to her forehead before urging her to settle, tucking the blanket around her once again.

It's only after she finally departs after waking up at an ungodly mid afternoon hour some Sunday post sleeping over that that he notes how sparse his closet has become. Ever the pirate, his Swan.

-;-

He insists on a shopping trip after work one day, showing up at the station to find David glancing at the two of them with cautious optimism as they exchange words about their day. He gives him what he can only deem as a nod of approval when they go to leave.

He's sure to hear from Mary Margaret at a later hour.

She lingers in front of an array of socks with various designs, hands seeming to gravitate to the ones that have anchors and helms. She claims that he needs them, and he buys them just to please her. (They end up being hers not even a week later, seemingly a perfect addition to her wardrobe.)

-;-

True to his initial assumption, Mary Margaret appears at his door a mere ten minutes after his return. Accompanied by a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a warm meal. She flits about his kitchen, acting more as a host then a guest,- shooting him quiet looks of admiration as she sets the table and prepares dinner.

She talks about work, and the children she's been tutoring. Teetering on the edge of the impending conversation.

"And David,-well he's just been so _thrilled_ with Emma's work ethic."

Ah, the perfect leeway.

She peaks a glance at him while she gives him another serving of pasta. "Speaking of Emma...you two seem to be getting on good, hmm?"

She's poking and prying now, shifting closer to him.

"Yeah-, she's uh, a good friend."

Her chair scratches across the floor as she scoots even closer. "Friend?"

He rolls his eyes as her own continue to bore into him. "Yes, _friend_."

She takes note of his tone and narrows her eyes. "But you like her."

He coughs on the wine he had chosen to sip at seemingly the wrong moment, she pats at his back and bites at her lip to suppress a smile from forming.

He's flustered now, and the words seem to tumble at an overwhelming pace due to her close proximity - "well, she's pretty-"

"Oh?" She's got him now, hand still at the base of his back, fingers pressing,- pushing the words out of him.

"I mean-, beautiful, no-I mean we're friends but-"

"But?" And now he's a blubbering mess because she knows what she's doing-

"She's just,-...I maybe fancy her." And he feels like a child again being interrogated by his mother.

"Oh Killian I knew it!" Her hand falls, and she works on taking his unfinished plate away from him. "This is wonderful news."

She pulls the fork out of his grip and he's left sitting with his mouth agape and hand frozen midway to his mouth.

"She is perfect for you."

He sighs, exhausted and exasperated. "Mary Margaret-"

"Hush, hush. Here-, dessert." She's giddy now, bouncing about spreading powdered sugar atop the pastry that's now planted before him.

He groans inwardly. "Thanks." He mumbles through mouthfuls.

Her befitting smile and loving look reminiscent of his own mother keep his anger at bay.

"I didn't think…after Milah passed…-I just…I'm unsure of how she feels, or if she feels anything for that matter,- but…"

It's past seven and she's taken it upon herself to tidy up here and there. Prolonging her stay, he knows,-but he enjoys these moments with her. Despite how pressing she can be,-Mary Margaret has always been the levee to his emotions.

"Killian," she begins while trimming a bouquet of roses that appeared from her bag. "It's been four years. It's good. You're the happiest I've seen you in so long. I've missed those dimples."

He scratches at his ear. "I'm afraid," he whispers, hoping she doesn't hear.

She pulls him in, wrapping herself around his middle. "Being afraid is natural. Don't let that fear control you. Take a chance."

He settles his head atop of hers, returning the hug,- reveling in the warmth she exudes. "...Okay."

It's a knock on the door that separates them, followed by the familiar stomp stomp stomp of Emma shaking off the rain.

"Holy _shit_ it's raining a shit ton." Her voice shouts from the foyer. "You better have rocky road coz I'm going home if you don't," she continues. "And it's my night to pick a movie Jones don't pull that shit you did last week. Just coz my memory sucks doesn't mean you can take advantage of me," -a brief array of collective noises sound through the halls signalling she's run into something. "...-Hey asshole, didn't I ask you to move this stupid table?"

And it's all so comforting to hear her, to hear Emma Swan- a true hurricane of curses and chaos burst into his house and ignite it with her fire.

Mary Margaret signals with a finger pressed to her lips to keep quit of her presence. She sneaks out the back door, with one final thumbs up before she disappears into the night.

"I bought tequila! Get your _arse_ out here." He shakes his head, not even fighting the grin on his face.

"Coming Princess." He shouts, retrieving two glasses from his cabinet.

"I'm not a Princess…" She growls out to him. "And don't forget the ice cream!"

"As you wish." He says to her with a bow, once he's arrived in the living room where she's already stretched out, shoes off, hair up.

"I swear to God I'll kick you in the nuts if you keep pulling that shit." She grabs the ice cream from his hand, skipping the glass to chug a shot straight from the bottle while glowering at him from over the rim.

She'll be the death of him, he swears.

-;-

It's in late June that he finally prepares The Jolly Roger for sail. He's made sure to keep the name a secret from Emma, but it won't be for long since the name is outlined across the side of it. (A drunken mistake, if asked.)

He ensures that everything is perfect before proposing a trip to her. He thinks a lot about Milah in that time, which throws him off guard. It has been a long while since he's had a long think about her.

And he isn't sure if that should unsettle him or not.

She says yes ...or rather in her more colorful language _'fuck yes'_ before he can utter the question in it's entirety.

He gave her the task of procuring lunch for them - which he should have known would result in a basket filled with treats more suitable for children. She happily opens a bag of chips on the way and dips into the heart shaped cookies Mary Margaret had conveniently baked _"just because I was in the mood."_

The wind is just right for a day at sea, and he can't help but steal small glances at Emma on their walk to the docks. He finds it to be rather extraordinary and beautiful that she _\- leather-clad, death metal driving, mouth of a sailor Emma_ \- has a affliction for sundresses. Long ones that dance over her legs and reveal bits of her skin, in pastel colors and florals that make her eyes look soft and her heart seem less weathered.

He likes it, likes her and the change the seasons bring to her wardrobe.

(He still misses the beanie.)

(She laughs for fifteen minutes at the name before he helps her climb aboard.)

(She laughs for another ten when he tells her the tale of it's birth. Liam and rum and being sixteen and twenty respectively in a small town with nothing to do but name a boat something ridiculous.)

She asks about him, about Liam. It's quiet for a long while after, and in the silence she rests her hand over his in a gentle reassurance that words would not be capable of providing.

She tells him about Neal some time later, after he's taught her how to steer and the boat is moored. The wind picking up her hair and tossing it in a way that makes his heart squeeze as the words of _him_ and _seventeen_ and _betrayal_ pour from her in small bursts as the boat rocks.

The patchwork she has created to fit the broken pieces together becomes more evident in these moments.

"I run to escape it, I guess. That feeling. The impending doubt and fear and- I run to get away from him. Even though he's not...chasing me or anything. He's just- what he did. It's always there. So I run. Because then it can't catch up with me."

It's quiet then too, like it always is when one manages to get beyond a secret both had vowed to bury. It's broken when he chokes on a bit of the tequila he'd brought - the boats sudden jerking decided to make him swallow a bit more than he could handle. She smiles and takes the bottle from him- calling him an _amateur_ all the while.

She falls asleep on the way back, just as the air is beginning to nip at his skin. He carries her home much to her initial dislike. After an array of slurred curses and a slight beating to his chest she gives in and is asleep once more by the time he climbs the stairs to his house.

She wakes a few hours later, burrowed in one of his sweatshirts she must have found laying about in his room. He has dinner prepared for her, and she begins picking at it idly without him having to say a word about it.

She settles next to him on the couch, plate in hand. Her cold toes burying themselves beneath his thigh as she lets the couch's comfort consume her.

He takes a chance on the timing and -

"We should do this again." He comments casually, surfing through the channels.

She hums in response, seeming more interested in the onion rings than him.

"As a date, perhaps."

She stiffens and immediately pulls her legs to her chest, nearly dropping the plate in the process. She places it down roughly on the table before standing, pacing about the room nervously.

"Killian. We're friends." She enunciates 'friends' with vigor, nearly gritting her teeth. She takes to biting at her thumb nail, the way she does when she's particularly anxious and he knows the timing wasn't right. "Don't do this, don't ruin this."

But it appears that he already has.

She leaves a few minutes later, a blur of excuses slipping easily off her tongue. She waves him off and disappears through the door.

It's hours later, when he's slumped on the couch halfway through a bottle of rum that an abrupt knock disrupts him from his self-loathing. She's there, standing in his doorway with her hair caught in a breeze and his sweatshirt pulled tight across her chest, and he sees that she's been crying.

He ushers her in, forces her to _'just sit, Swan, please'_ and urges her to drink the hot chocolate he now keeps in his cabinet.

"I'm sorry I got so pissed. I'm messed up. Not just- I'm seriously messed up, Killian. I'm not the type of girl guys fall for. And I feel bad for you. I really do, because I can't-"

He silences her with a gentle wave, causing her to cease the splutter of words.

"If anything, love. I'm just as messed up as you."

She manages to laugh, then, wiping at a stray tear. "I'm sorry. But-...I meant what I said. We're friends"

She catches his glance, a million words trapped at the tip of his tongue are spoken between them in the silence that surrounds them. Her eyes are telling a far different story then her lips.

A desperate, pleading urge for the release of the guard on her heart.

A silent, mutual plea of too much but it should be enough.

He understands.

"You remembered the cinnamon." She whispers after some time of a cataclysmic distance hurling them apart so suddenly.

"I always do, love."

(It's not enough.)

-;-

Mary Margaret consoles him in the best way she knows how. A plethora of food and talk of happy endings not always being easy.

"She'll come around." She ensures, while encouraging him to eat the last helping of pie. "It'll just take time. Be patient."

And he is.

-;-

The last tendrils of summer are gripping to the edges of the town. She's taken a liking to stealing his sweatshirts when they're out on his porch drinking a variety of ales he has procured from the local brewery. It's all small talk again, weather and work and tv. It's changed, he notes bitterly as her hand moves further from his wandering one that yearns to hold hers if only for a second. It's changed, he notes, when her eyes linger too long in the distance. She hasn't gone anywhere, but it feels as if she has.

She frequents his place less and less as the leaves begin falling; the colors of autumn suddenly fading into bleak browns and stark greys. She seems rather rushed when he sees her out in town, always busily collecting herself to leave the moment he catches her in the diner.

And the worst part is that he misses her. It had all been so sudden, her appearance in his life, that he never really had the chance to dwell on how much had truly changed since her arrival.

-;-

He stands masked by darkness in his living room peeking out at her house noting only her bedroom light is lit. He summons the courage to go over, contemplating a million times over if he should be intruding on her night.

A memory of a better time flashes in his mind,

 _"I don't do the whole birthday thing. So don't even try to get it out of me."_

Alas, lucky enough for him David had just so happened to sneak a peak of her date of birth when he was filing some paperwork.

The bracelet he had crafted of twine and pieces from the shipyard held together by a small welded swan and anchor sits tucked in a neat box, the bow crafted just as neatly as the jewelry.

He feels stupid suddenly, standing on her porch with it in his hands as he stares at the door. But he knocks regardless, hoping the gift will alleviate the distance between them.

She opens after a brief moment, a soft glow from the last remnants of a single candle hold light amidst the darkness. She invites him in, though he notes the hesitation.

"Just a stupid tradition." She murmurs, tucking the cupcake into her fridge for later consumption.

He sets the box down in front of her, she rolls her eyes and gives it a shake before setting it back down. She takes the time to peel the paper back slowly, blushing he knows at the memory of ripping apart the last gift he had given her. Her hands shake when she lifts it to get a proper view-eyes widening slightly. It sits perfectly on her wrist over the buttercup tattoo, reflecting the dim light of her kitchen. She releases the breath she had been holding, laughing lightly as she plays with it.

"Don't tell me you made this." She says, eyes narrowing as her head tilts.

"I did."

She rolls her eyes again- an endearing gesture, he knows now. "Of course you did."

A bit of normalcy follows, and it feels like old times as she laughs at his jokes again. The air is still thick, though, and he knows she feels it too. She has remained sitting across from him, the distance he had hoped to leap seems to have escalated instead.

"What did you wish for?" He asks when the night ends too soon and she's stood inside, he out the door.

She fiddles with the bracelet, quiet sigh escaping from her lips. "To not be alone."

He wants to tell her that she never will be, if she takes a chance on this-, them.

He wants to press his hand to her cheek and wipe away the sadness that is etched in her brow and kiss the frown from her lips. But there is a thousand miles between them, and it seems like forever that he's stood there staring at her but it's all just one second. One second of their forever.

He takes his leave and wishes her a goodnight.

He wishes for the same.

-;-

It's on the 17th of December that the rickety old 'for sale' sign welcomes him once again, swaying ominously in the wind. In disbelief he staggers forward, nearly stepping on a small note held from the wind by a meager rock.

 _"I'm sorry. Forget me not?"_

The tiny blue flower held up by its weak stem feels heavy in his grasp.

He runs to Mary Margaret's in a haste, she tells him she _thought he knew_ and _New York_ and _three hours ago_. She urges him to go despite his initial hesitation, firmly placing the keys to David's truck into his palm giving him a pointed glare.

"Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a very powerful thing. Don't be an idiot. Go."

-;-

He drives for most of the night, not knowing where he's going or how he is going to find her. He hadn't thought this through in the slightest, but her favorite song is playing on the radio and he doesn't believe in fate or coincidences or that everything happens for a reason but-

He keeps going. Until Dave's old truck decides to break down in New Hampshire, forty miles from anything with a dead cellphone and no hope left to spare, that is.

He sits atop the hood with his head in his hands, not a soul in sight, left only with his thoughts and that damned forget-me-not a weighing down his pocket.

-;-

And again...he doesn't believe in fate or coincidences or that everything happens for a reason but headlights appear two hours later - and …

It's her.

-;-

"What the hell Killian!" She shouts, crossing the road to stand before him, her beanie in its rightful place and she's wearing a sweatshirt that looks very much like the one he had lost. "What are you doing out here?"

He takes a chance and tugs at the beanie, pulling it down to further cover her ears from the biting wind.

"I could ask you the same."

She scowls and shoves him roughly, turning in a huff back to her car, "This isn't some stupid 90's holiday romcom, you know. This isn't how real life is."

"I think it's more happenstance if you ask-"

"Shut up! You and your stupid fancy words," She interrupts, throwing her hands in the air, "Just shut up."

She bites at her thumb nail, pacing about the empty road, "This isn't how real life is," she repeats.

"Why did you come back then?"

"I wasn't coming back- I was…"

"Coming back." He corrects.

"Because I wanted to say goodbye. Properly- I ...felt stupid."

"Swan-" He takes a step closer to her.

"No. Don't. I'm leaving. Goodbye- there I did it."

She hastily reaches for her car door and swings it open, nearly knocking him over in the process. He holds it open firmly despite her best efforts to close it. She shoots him a trying glare before settling into her seat, silently fuming.

"I do appreciate your attempt at a goodbye...but- considering that you are here, coincidentally of course- it appears my car is out of commission and I am in need of a ride."

She gawks at him for a moment, her arms crossed as she peers past him at Dave's truck that is sitting dead on the other side of the road.

"Get in," she growls, giving his legs a firm kick to move him out of the way.

It's a long drive, he only realizes once they are sat in awkward silence for the first twenty minutes. He reaches for the radio and she shoots him a look, but soon Christmas hits are filling the space that neither of them can fill.

Her shoulders seem to loosen, and her hands seem to relax on the wheel.

"If I recall correctly, this particular song was the one you and Ruby sang graciously last Christmas." He notes with amusement, chancing a look at her and taking quiet appreciation at the slight upward tug of her lips.

"Quiet, Jones." She murmurs, reaching to turn up the volume, "Don't make me subject you to a reenactment."

He laughs then, for the first time in a long while. The sound of it is apparently quite infectious because soon she too is slightly chuckling at the memory despite her efforts to cease from laughing.

They manage a duet two hours in, shouting all the wrong words to Baby it's Cold Outside into the void.

"I've got to go … away," she sings, off key,- car veering slightly to the left due to the vigor of her belting out the words.

"But _baby_ it's cold outside." He shouts back, reaching over to settle a hand on her thigh. She snorts at him, tossing him a look with a raised brow.

"Please never ever say baby like that again. Or call me baby, ever."

"As you wish, Princess."

She slams on the brakes, causing his hand to fly off her thigh and the beanie she bought him to fall forward down his face.

"Oi! Precious cargo Swan!"

"Don't kid yourself, Jones. You're far from precious."

He frowns in mock hurt, righting his beanie.

"Aw, you're ego can't handle that huh?"

"Me and my ego are just fine." He retorts.

She reaches over and gives his arm a gentle squeeze, "glad to hear it."

It's late when they arrive back. An impending storm bristling at the edges of the horizon, which she takes notice of with a scrunch to her nose and a sigh to the heavens for damning her with this weather.

"Stay." He whispers as the flakes begin to fall and catch onto her eyelashes.

" _Stay_." He urges, tugging at her beanie, pulling her up the stairs.

"One night." She murmurs, shoving his hands away from her space as she stomps up his steps.

She has his favorite t-shirt on, the one she used to always steal in the summer when she spent the night. She's spread out on the couch, blanket tucked up under her chin with her eyelids faltering from opening as the minutes pass and the night grows longer.

She's wearing the socks he bought her too, he observes as they peek out from beneath the quilt. The ones with the anchors and helms on them. He smiles despite himself, as he rests a glass of water next to her.

"One night," She asserts again, opening one eye to give him one last glare.

"One night," He confirms. She closes her eyes then, visibly relaxing at his confirmation.

One night, it just so happens, turns to three. Which turns into a week.

 _"Because-the holidays-and traffic-and it's been snowing a lot so."_ She stumbles through a practiced list of excuses each night as she flops onto his couch.

"One more night." He says with a wink as she huffs and pulls at the blanket she had stolen from his bedroom to cover her nose.

"One more night," She confirms with a nod.

-;-

It's New Year's Eve when she announces she'll be going. And he knows this time it's true, for her possessions are no longer scattered in his living room. He hums in response, regarding the now empty space void of her things.

"I'll leave after I say goodbye to Mary Margaret tonight," She asserts, fiddling with the zipper of her jacket, "Thank you for-...letting me stay."

He's distracted the whole night, watching her from his corner in the bustling apartment, making sure she's still here. She glances at her phone more than once, willing the hours to pass faster it seems, for she appears rather eager to leave.

"I will maim you if you do not go over there and speak to her," Mary Margaret whispers venomously in his ear. She gives him a push in her direction and-

She sees him coming, makes a move towards the door and slips out into the night. She's all hard edges again, in her leather boots and red jacket and that worn beanie hanging low.

He hears the roar of the town, hears the cheer of the impending New Year -

 **Ten ...**

"Swan," he begins, stepping towards her.

 **Nine ...  
**  
"Killian,... I,-" She pauses, mouth slightly agape as her eyes get caught in his. A mess of colors reminiscent of a dewy summer night, the greens and blues melding into the flecks of gold, highlighted by the water that's brimming at their edges. " I really have to go," she finishes, shaking her head while breaking contact, glancing down to collect herself, moving a step back,- _too much, not enough, more more more._

 **Eight ...  
**  
"Is that what you want?" He asks, chancing it and moving closer. Her eyes still downcast, heart still heavy, guard still up,-armor fully consuming her. She heaves a sigh, accompanied by a breathless laugh as she wipes at her eyes. Shaking herself slightly, before standing straight before him, shoulders back,-eyes determined, jaw set.

 **Seven ...  
**  
She rolls her eyes at his persistence, tries to play off any and all of the emotions that are bubbling up within her in the way she does best. "Yes." Her eyes have always told a different story from her lips, from her body, from her stance. _More_.

 **Six ...  
**  
"I would like it if you stayed," He adjusts her jacket slightly, catching a curl in his grip and twisting it delicately between his fingertips. Her facade falters at his touch. The walls around her slightly crumble, the armor begins to fall. Her eyes dance over his face. Lips fixed into a frown.

 **Five ...**

"Killian..." And it's a plea, more than anything else. Breathless, voice wavering - walls completely falling. Armor removed, an all too sudden strikingly intimate moment that he seizes.

 **Four ..**.

"Swan." A challenge, her eyes alight with the tone of his voice.

 **Three ...**

"My heart is not on the market, Jones," She retorts with a smirk, stepping even closer filling the empty space between them. Their breath mingles together as they stand nose to nose, heart to heart. "Sorry."

 **Two ...  
**  
 _ **"**_ Is that because I already have it?" He counters, amused by the sudden glint in her eyes. He casts a quick glance to her lips as his tongue skims along his bottom lip.

 **One ...** "Your ego, Jones, I _swear_ -"

She beats him to it, pulling at the lapels of his jacket crash landing her lips atop of his as the town bursts to life and fireworks ignite around them. She feels warm against him, her mouth pressing silent promises to his _,- this is home, this is more, this is enough, stay._ They break apart after a long moment of chasing touch, hands wandering,- noses brushing. They linger in this one second that feels like forever in no rush to distance themselves. He toys with the ends of the beanie he loves, pulling it down further to cover her eyes as he drops a kiss to her nose.

"If life was like a Christmas movie…" he begins, which earns him a swift punch to his ribs. She regains her vision, scowling at him for pulling a line like that. She silences him with her lips crashing into his once again.

"Don't start with that shit." She murmurs as she pulls away slightly from his open mouth as he chases hers for more.

"As you wish." He whispers once he finally catches her, sealing the vow with another kiss.

(One second is all they needed.)

* * *

Merry Christmas.


	2. He'll Be Her Anchor

**She's the Tear in my Heart (2/2)**

 _Summary: Sometimes forever is just one second._

* * *

She likes him, she guesses. Well,- _like_ is almost too childish of a word for her to determine it as a fitting conclusion.

He's okay.

Yeah, he's okay.

She likes his ears the most.

Scratch that, his ears are _okay_.

The way they-... they point at the tips. Sometimes when he's wearing that beanie she bought him one of them misses being tucked under the warmth and peaks out. He's all lopsided looking, the hat failing to cover his bed head hair. It's not like she finds it cute - or endearing, or anything like that. He's just...Killian, not an object of her affection or someone she's all doe-eyed over.

Nope.

He's just Killian who has okay ears. But, while on the subject of Killian Jones, just...to get some things straight...she doesn't _like_ him, remember. She doesn't take any notice to the way his smile expands in the morning when he first sees her, and he's all _I just woke up, look at me looking all perfectly disheveled._

He's a friend who just so happens to be good looking.

And maybe she always wanted to know what it'd be like to kiss him.

So she did.

Because she's a grown woman who has eyes and a (as of late) very unsatisfied libido. She's not some swooning teenager who's all heart-eyes over the first guy that notices her freckles and _fancies_ her laugh. She kissed him just for the sake of knowing what it'd be like, to scratch the itch-, not for any other reason.

Nope.

But she kissed him and usually she can run or jump the guys bones and _then_ run.

She sort of forgot she's homeless.

She's lying on _his_ couch in _his_ home because she went and did what she always does and jumped the gun and got rid of her own house.

So now…, now she's stuck.

No, not stuck ...err. She's...a _compliant guest_ in his home.

Because she kissed him, and he kissed her back, and she's homeless, and out of options.

And now…

She gives in to her thoughts that always run wild at night. She chases away the doubt by shoving off the blanket Killian had foraged from the hallway closet. He _of course_ had it folded neatly and packed away once she had announced that she would be leaving. He's a total neat freak and she enjoys pissing him off by leaving a mess.

Anyway.

She marches upstairs, but halfway up she has to remind herself that it is 3 AM and he is probably sleeping-, so she settles on quietly stomping.

She knows his room is at the end of the hall past all the other empty rooms that she took to snooping in when he was downstairs fiddling with making her dinner. He's insistent like that, always claiming she doesn't eat enough food that _'provides proper sustenance.'_

He doesn't know the real story, or maybe he's interpreted enough about her to know why she is the way she is. The kitchen is the only room he seems to be at home in. Making meals and arranging the spices alphabetically for the hundredth time while she sits on her computer watching him and trying not to laugh at him.

The rest of the house, this huge house, he doesn't really fit in. Or maybe he doesn't make any effort to fit into it. It's just empty, old, and sort of cryptic.

She thinks she can maybe help. She's no home decorator but she's seen enough of HGTV to know the basics.

She likes the room that's closest to the stairs. It has these wide, floor to ceiling windows that look out into the woods. In the winter when the trees have all withered and croaked she can see the sea. A bit a ways down the path in the backyard,- which is overgrown and has a broken swing. For a neat freak he really lacks a whole lot of momentum on keeping up his house. Is it a metaphor? She did pay attention in English Lit her sophomore year before she bailed.

She remembers-..., she's getting sidetracked.

She opens the door to his bedroom to find him sitting up, a book open, and a dim bedside lamp illuminating the bleak room. His eyes jump from the page to meet hers, a small smile faintly forming on his lips.

"Hey," she says casually, leaning on the door frame.

"Swan." He places the book down (Shakespeare, typical) and pats at the spot next to him. "No TV tonight?"

She rolls her eyes and makes a show out of begrudgingly complying to his gesture for her to sit. She huffs out a sigh as she flops down next to him and grabs at the blanket, burrowing herself in the warmth leaving him just a corner to spare.

"Nah," she burrows further, finding a nice spot and settling. She avoids his glance for as long as possible as the silence grows and stretches. She gives in eventually and takes a chance, sneaking a look at him.

He always does this thing where he looks at her like he...like he just...cares. And like he just knows and sees past everything…

She manages to free one of her legs from the tangled blanket to give one of his a firm kick.

"You're ogling, Jones."

He laughs and he's blushing, right up to the tips of his ears and he's doing that thing he does when he's nervous, scratching behind his ear, searching for something to say.

"Apologies, lass. It's not everyday a beautiful woman stumbles into my room at this hour, steals my blankets, and then complains that I'm ogling her."

She hums in response, regarding him for a moment. Taking in his white cotton tee that looks pressed and his tired, weathered eyes that say a lot more than his mouth ever does. He has these moments, these bursts of confidence when the words spill easily, usually past any sane hour of proper conversation. So she eases the reins, lets her guard down slightly because he's an _okay_ guy.

An okay guy who thinks she's okay too.

"You can ogle if you want I guess."

He makes a move to settle his pillows back into their rightful spot, organizing them accordingly before resting his head upon them as he continues to look at her like she's some sort of rare and exquisite painting. (She snorts at that thought.)

She's not really used to this whole admiring in bed sort of thing without the whole sex beforehand.

So it's weird but his eyes are an... _okay_ color.

And he's _okay_ to look at too.

It's been a long day, a long day of driving and running and she's tired-, not so much physically. The silence ebbs and flows between them, it sort of reminds her of the bobbing feeling on the Jolly. A good sort of quiet, a good sort of silence that makes her heart feel less heavy. After awhile she notes his hand twitching slightly, almost as if he thought of moving it before deciding against it.

She smiles at that, but rolls her eyes to try and hide it.

"Go ahead, Jones." She murmurs because it's late and she's too tired to fight against him, this moment, this feeling. He reaches for her hair, she should have known that's what he was going for because he has a thing for it. He likes when it's wavy and messy and he likes fixing it when it's out of place.

(Neat freak.)

But tonight is different. He pushes her hair behind her ear but...his palm rests on her cheek after. His thumb rubbing at her chin, pausing at the divot she hates but he's gentle about. It's soft...and intimate. (That word nauseates her.)This whole _thing_ should nauseate her but she's too tired to rattle him off with words or shake his hand from it's place, so she lets him keep going.

She falls asleep like that, with his hand cupping her cheek, his eyes wandering over her-, quietly regarding her.

It's a lot.

But he's _okay_.

-;-

It's sort of awkward now, but a good awkward. He's all discombobulated trying to navigate this new situation (is it a situation?) and she's enjoying how much he's flailing through it. She watches him flitting about in the kitchen in an apron Mary Margaret had given him. He doesn't notice her, which she prefers.

She likes this version of ogling...stalking...whatever.

"So," she finally announces, making her presence known-,breaking him from his chaotic scrambling. He drops the plate he had been washing back into the sink as he turns abruptly to stare at her.

"Swan-...Morning, breakfast?" He's all fast limbs and wobbly hands and frantic eyes as he staggers through the kitchen prepping coffee and heating up a pan.

(He's an idiot.)

"Hey," she comes up behind him and firmly wraps herself around his middle, confining his arms to his sides. "Ease up on the caffeine."

He relaxes after a moment, taking a breath before she releases him.

"I'm not gonna run off. I know that's sort of my thing, but you're stuck with me."

His shoulders fall as he sighs in relief. "I'm sorry...I'm just-"

"Me too."

"It's new," he confirms

"And a lot," she finishes. She turns off the stove and grabs the coffee mug he had made up for her.

"I have an idea," she reaches for his hand and pulls him towards the stairs. He blushes a remarkable shade of pink and she laughs at the size of his eyes.

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Swan-...No, I wasn't thinking-"

She silences him with a chaste kiss, "shut up."

He nods, the blush is still in full form across his face.

She stands with him in the empty room with the big windows that has a closet that could hold both _his_ and _her_ clothes, not that she even considered that fact. He's moving his weight from foot to foot as they stand in the middle of the vast room. She moves closer to the window and squints out. He follows her, leaning forward and looking out too, mimicking her.

"I'm sorry, love, it appears I'm missing your point."

"I like this room."

He moves his eyes from the window and peers around, regarding the empty space trying to understand her point of view as he always does.

"We-...well. I know...I can find a new place here, in Storybrooke, I mean. But-...I like...this room. If you wanna, like...rent it to me or something...but I mean, this room is huge so if you wanna-...I dunno. Share it with me. Not like-...I mean...We aren't...I dunno. But it's nice. This room."

"Okay."

"Okay?" He's moving closer to her, the way he does when he manages to make her to make her splutter like her old sink he used to fix when she lived next door. He's smiling now too, and she realizes he's _way_ too good at that-, way too good at moving from an innocent idiot who can't look at her without blushing to a snarky, cocky, unbelievably handsome _Casanova_ who suddenly has all the confidence in the world.

"This room is big enough for us both," he replies while gestures to the space, cocking his brow as a smirk settles on his smug face.

"Yeah?" She crosses her arms, not feeding into his ego.

"We're just-," his hands moving about as he searches for the right word, suddenly reverting back to being innocent.

"Friends…" She finishes for him.

"Uh-huh…" His eyes fall from hers to the floor, her word choice firmly hitting his confidence squarely. "Who kiss sometimes," he adds softly, eyes jumping back to hers, he suddenly realizing the game she's been playing this whole conversation.

"Mmm…" She bites at her lip now that she's got him on the same page.

"Who live together," he adds while twisting a stray curl between his fingertips as his head cocks to the side, eyes darting to her lips.

"Uh-huh." She's closing the gap between them, arms still crossed. "So, we're friends who kiss and…share a room." She concludes in a whisper, her mouth a mere inch from hers.

"Indeed." She can smell the coffee on his breath, the aftershave, faint remnants of cinnamon and vanilla mingling together.

"Okay." Her lips brushing his, he leans forward hesitantly, looking to press his lips firmly to hers. She pulls away just as he is about to reach his goal-

"Let's go shopping." She turns on her heel and swaggers out of the room, giving him an eyeful of her legs and a peak of her other asset as she swings out the door of the room.

She loves the chase.

-;-

She's never bought a mattress before. It's a weird process, she finds, lying on the fifth bed staring at the tiled ceiling. It's weird because...it seems like such a mundane, normal thing to do with someone, a _friend_ she reminds herself. Her life before Storybrooke had been far from normal. She would settle for anything-, a floor, a couch, her car. She never had the luxury, or the money, or the need to buy a mattress. It seems so final.

It seems like…

"Swan?" He invades her vision, leaning over her, concern etched on his brows.

"This one," she tilts her chin to the empty space next to her gesturing to him to try it out. He settles in next to her, awkwardly adjusting himself as she lays still staring up in silence.

"This one?" He repeats.

"Do you like it? Coz...your opinion...on mattresses. You have one-...it'd be nice...to hear your opinion."

"It's cozy." He deduces, squirming a bit. "But I do prefer sleeping on the right."

She sits up, peering down at him as he continues fixating his eyes on the tiled ceiling.

"Well-" She throws one of her legs over his middle, straddling him innocently while taking the time to slowly maneuver her other leg over until she is to his left. He's hardly coherent by the time she shoves him further towards where she just was.

"There. Better?"

"Uh-huh." Red faced, sweating slightly, and truly bamboozled by her brazen nature.

(Maybe she _does_ like him.)

He insists that he doesn't need assistance strapping it to the roof of her car, but after his seventh attempt she manages to do it herself in one try.

"You were the one who fixed my headlight, weren't you?" She asks as she backs out of the space.

"I-...may have meddled with it."

"Well, I appreciate you _meddling_."

"Noted, Princess."

She slaps his arm, for old times sake.

Yeah, she likes him.

-;-

Okay, so maybe TV does make everything look easier.

Painting, to be specific.

Because no one told her-...well maybe the guy at the counter did try to warn her but _misogyny_ and all that got her blood boiling before she could let the guy finish telling her what to do.

The floors are safe, covered in white sheets, but she is covered in paint. It's a muted sort of blue. Sort of, maybe, like the color of his eyes but sort of also like the color of forget-me-nots mixed with the sea. It was the first color she saw on the wall, the one she was drawn to and bought impulsively without inspecting the others.

He isn't home, but she knows he will be soon because he's like clockwork.

She finishes up on the last wall when he appears in the doorway. She's a mess, chunks of dried paint are stuck to her cheeks and she's sure there's a lot of it in her hair. He confirms that by pulling out a good sized portion, regarding her with quiet admiration.

"You never cease to amaze me."

He's all fancy words, dark eyes and compliments that never cease. She sort of hates him for how good he is at breaking through-, but…

They move the bed in the following day, placing it against the wall opposite the windows. She makes him move it three times before she feels that it's just right. And it really isn't till she's tucked up watching the stars from the left side of the bed. She doesn't want to ask him to join her but he's hovering about, prolonging his stay with her in her space by arranging her shoes and folding her clothes that she had thrown about in a haste earlier.

"Come here."

He's nervous, she knows by the way his hands drum against his thighs and the way his jaw is set.

"Come _here_." She repeats more firmly, throwing the blanket aside exposing the empty spot. They watch the stars like that together, warm and loose bones,- tired eyes and unsettled hearts.

She's happy, she thinks. She hopes she doesn't ruin this.

Whatever this is.

-;-

There's this place she likes to go to. Not too far from the docks or the shoreline, just a bit a ways from the sand where there's this swing set that's sort of decaying and rotting. It's not far from anything, not too far away but it's quiet.

Moving to Storybrooke was another decision she made impulsively. She's been traveling up and down the east coast looking for something but never strayed too far from the ocean. It's a constant in her life, one she can never really rid of. She didn't anticipate liking it here, considered it just another pitstop on the endless wandering journey she's been on trying to find... _something_.

She's scared of it-, him.

She's scared.

She told herself a long time ago that she was in this alone, that she was better off alone.

 _"That's how you know you've really got a home: When you leave it, there's that feeling that you can't shake. You just miss it."_

She'd been looking a long time for what Neal had described. A home, a place where she'd feel safe-, alone with only herself.

But she realized last night when he came home and said _"I missed you today" t_ hat home isn't a place.

It's a person.

The far off place she deemed as impossible to find as Neverland turned out to be a blue eyed, heart smuggling pirate who swooped in unbeknownst to her and gave her that something she'd been looking for.

That feeling.

He knows she likes this spot. He visits her sometimes when she doesn't come home. Settles a cup of hot chocolate into her shaking hands and wraps a blanket around her shoulders. He never stays, but today she asks him to.

Today she tells him.

The bits and baubles he collects about her echo the seaglass and shells that accumulate and pile together placed in jars around their house lining windowsills and dressers, counters, and side tables. Her story melding together with his turning into _theirs_ -, not words, no. Physical reminders of what the ocean deposited that reflect their empty voices. They are the reminders of her change, the collection of unspoken words and moments shared.

And she doesn't know how or when her life suddenly became a part of someone else's. But the weight feels lighter when she sees them in every corner, crevice, once empty place now housing these pieces of their story.

-;-

She has this mole-, freckle he reminds her, birthmark rather, that he's obsessed with, right below her left breast. He finds it by accident. An innocent occasion that led to wandering hands and loose lips and gentle nudging.

Well, that's how he'd describe it she's sure.

It was more of a clash of teeth and biting that escalated into a push pull dance of tearing buttons and hands roaming across hip bones up stomachs and catching at the underwire of her bra.

He kisses it once, twice-, before he moves to kiss her nose, collarbone and that place behind her ear that makes her knees a little weak and her heart stutter (not that she'd admit that.)

He's a vault of information about old tales, words of the past that line pages of his books that are now housed in one of the empty rooms that they converted into a makeshift library. He tells her-, when she's splayed out, nearly naked and wanting and needing his touch when she's in no mood for one of his rants about them-, a tale of soulmates of all things.

"It's said that freckles-," he begins, mapping out the planes of her body with his touch. He's careful, navigating her body like he would the sea. Calloused hands, firm touch, wandering eyes.

"Moles-," she corrects, watching him chart her freckles like constellations.

"Birthmarks," he stops to glare at her, the ache returning low in her stomach. She nudges his shoulder with her knee, not quite giving up on the game.

"Blemishes," she hums, and she knows she's won by the sigh he releases and the way he leans back.

"Swan." He's exasperated, she knows. Sometimes she pushes him too far when he gets romantic, when it gets to be too much, too intimate. Sex was never like this for her. It was never-,

"Go on." She murmurs, not letting herself dwell on old wounds at a time like this.

"It's said that _freckles_ -," he pauses to ensure she won't interrupt, "...appear in the spots where your soulmate has kissed you in a past life."

"Well he or she went overboard," she cocks her head to the side, reveling in his raised brows and momentary shock.

"She?" He finally manages to splutter, trying to maintain his suave composure.

"Don't look so surprised, Jones." She gives his shoulder another nudge with her leg, egging him to continue.

"Well-," he returns to his pursuit, kissing his way down her neck across her chest and her arms. "I'm ensuring that in the next life, any man or woman knows that I took my time and savored you."

"What are you implying ..." She stiffens beneath him and he immediately ceases.

"Nothing." He pulls back knowing that he's crossed some invisible line she's set up for herself. And she should be terrified, she should want to kick him off of her and run and scream at him for thinking that.

It's a heavy pause, lingering touch-, shadowed glances...he makes a move to get up and-,

"You're saying you're my soulmate? Your ego Jones-," she rolls her eyes, trying to ease how heavy this conversation has become.

"Just playing with the possibility, darling." And there it is, that stupid smile of his that is infectious and makes one appear on her own face.

"Soulmates _don_ 't exist." A shift-, he knows the dance, knows when things become too much for her.

"Just in case they do." He's too good at this-, at figuring her out. He's too good at manipulating his words and getting into her head, into her heart.

"What makes you think you're mine?" She uses what she learned on the streets to get a hold of him, suddenly throwing him off guard and on his back so now she's the one in control.

"Someone once told me everything happens for a reason." He's a willing victim below her, all loose limbs and teasing glances and rolling his tongue over his lips.

"What's that got to do with anything?" She whispers, bending down to nip at his jaw.

"Everything." She's got him, breathless and now he's the one wanting, needing.

"Jones, can we get on with this?" She replies in a huff, leaning back to stare down at him.

"As you wish."

Before she can utter a retort he's back to kissing her blemishes-, _freckles_.

-;-

He asks her to dance this time.

Usually it's her, but tonight he's got her eighties spotify station on low and his hips are doing that ridiculous little swivel.

"Let us go to funkytown, love."

"Oh my _god_."

He shimmies across the kitchen floor in socks that look a lot like the ones he bought her-, well maybe she stole them but,- he grabs her hips and more or less forces her to join him in his terrible pursuit to find the rhythm.

He's got this-, boisterous, yeah-, that's a word Killian would use-, sort of laugh. It's a deep rumble, super low and vibrates through her. When he does it she knows it's genuine because he's got this other laugh, this fake chuckle he reserves for casual conversations with people around town. This _boisterous_ laugh he saves for her, when they're alone and jiving to some techno tune, or in bed when she cracks a stupid joke she read on the back of a laffy taffy.

He dips her, spins her, and makes her feel as if she's weightless in those rare moments she truly lets herself go. She imagines this is what it must have felt like for Wendy, John, Michael, and George on their flight to Neverland.

 _"All you need is a little faith, trust, and pixie dust."_

Yeah, it's his laugh-, the pixie dust she needs to complete that recipe.

-;-

Labels are meant for food, not people. So this thing they have? It's not even a thing-, it's...

Okay. She'll settle on that label, it's a thing.

Just two grownups exploring different ways to make the other orgasm.

-Mary Margaret says otherwise. David says Mary Margaret says otherwise, actually.

David is a conundrum.

No-, he's...he's such a dad. Which she guesses is why she sees him as a conundrum. Because he's overprotective and she's never had someone care as much as he does. Like a dad in a sitcom. Yeah-, just like that.

Killian uses that word a lot-, conundrum.

She guesses she sees David as such because she's sort of new to this whole-, having friends thing. And new to this whole _two grownups exploring different ways to make the other orgasm_ thing she has going on with Killian.

He likes to ask her about her weekends, walks her to her car at night, makes sure she wears her seatbelt and makes her take a proper break at noon to eat. It started as a joke calling him dad. But it sort of escalated into this weird thing where she thinks he enjoys taking on that role in her life.

"So Mary Margaret says that you and Killian…," it always begins.

"David." He's been trying this interrogation for days now. She's sure Mary Margaret has pressed Killian on the subject and he's probably (unwillingly) released far more information than he had anticipated, but David's wife is a woman on a mission.

"Watercooler talk is all." He's trying to be casual, leaning against her desk with his arms crossed sipping at the coffee she had brought for him.

"We don't even have a watercooler..." She retorts, biting into the last bit of a bearclaw with a smirk.

"It's just a phrase-," he's blushing, thrown off guard-, not quite as good at this whole interrogation thing in comparison to his wife.

"Can we not, though?" She shoots him a look and he raises his hands in defeat, returning to his desk.

 _ **E**_ \- Dad is on to us.

She sneaks a glance at him watching her, he narrows his eyes and she shakes her head.

 _ **K**_ \- Mom is too.

She snorts, causing David to scowl.

 _ **E**_ \- What do we tell them?

 _ **K**_ \- We're friends who give each other orgasms, so you've told me.

She smiles down at the screen, hands pausing over the letters. Before she can think too much about it she sends-

 _ **E**_ \- I was actually going to go with boyfriend and girlfriend, Jones.

A pause. Two minutes pass.

 _ **E**_ -...who give each other orgasms.

The three dots appear in an instant

 _ **K**_ \- I enjoy this development.

 _ **E**_ \- You enjoy the orgasms, too.

At home when she's halfway through the door, midway through kicking off her shoes and shrugging off her jacket he appears from the darkness. He pins her against the door, pressing kisses to her cheeks, her neck, lips, chest.

"Killian-," a breathless whine, she wasn't prepared for this onslaught of affection.

"I'm your boyfriend." He hums against her breasts, "...who gives you orgasms." He finishes, biting at her collarbone.

"Just coz I added the word _boy_ before _friend_ doesn't really change anything-,"

"Love," he ceases momentarily to stare at her. "It changes everything."

-;-

It's Tuesday-, she only knows it's Tuesday because Killian keeps this ridiculous calendar in the kitchen that holds his bills and notes-, all jotted on paper in his perfect cursive. He leaves her reminders to eat and reminders to put her shoes in the hallway _not_ in the middle of the floor.

And it's 6:15 P.M. Her stoves clock never worked, but his is in _'ship shape.'_

There's thirteen forget-me-nots and ten buttercups spread out on the kitchen table, twenty-three in total. Attached to each stem is a folded note, wrapped and sealed with twine reminiscent of the bracelet sitting pretty on her wrist.

"Thirteen moments that made it impossible to forget you. Ten moments I realized I-, lo-.. _.ike._.. you." He announces from behind her, momentarily startling her. She doesn't turn to face him.

She counts out five deep breaths as she continues to stare at the delicate things, her hands wandering over the soft petals.

"Only ten?" She exhales-, closing her eyes trying to calm her heart and plead with her feet to keep her from fleeing.

"Eleven now," he chuckles, wrapping her in his embrace from behind and settling his head on her shoulder. He grounds her, anchoring her to this spot-, one more second is all she needs. One more breath. One more moment of silence.

"Thank you." She moves slightly, edging out of his arms to face him.

"I don't want you to open them now, only when you need to." He's worried that he's crossed one of her many invisible boundaries, she knows. He's got that crease between his eyebrows that always appears when he's distressed, and his eyes turn from a clear blue to something reminiscent of a sky before a storm.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She lifts her hand and places it on his cheek, working her thumb over his scruff, down his jaw.

"You'll know." He leans into her palm, closing his eyes and reveling in the small bits and bursts of her initiating touch. She breaks the tension then, moving her hands to his hips pulling him in.

"Play that funky music white boy." She breathes into his neck, causing him to burst out laughing.

Her playlist fills the holes and cracks that their conversation left open.

They dance away the darkness.

-;-

The urge to run won't cease tonight. It's pulling her, beckoning her like an old friend with welcoming arms.

She needs to go.

It wasn't anything really. It was just-, it's…

He held her hand. Okay maybe that does sound a bit ridiculous now, hindsight and all that. But-, it wasn't just that. It was different this time.

A meal at Mary Margaret's-, large heapings of her homemade lasagna, with not-so-subtle glances and tiny smiles at them like she just knew. They left just past seven, with warmed hearts and the feeling of home wrapping them together. He grabbed it once they had exited, bristling down the stairs to evade Mary Margaret sneaking glances from the window. He held it like it was always supposed to fit and meld with hers in perfect synchrony. Soulmates and all that-,

No.

She's fifteen again, lost and tired and not wanted or missed. She'll always be that girl, she knows that. No matter how old she gets, no matter how much time has passed she'll always be that baby on the side of a highway-, unwanted. She's tucked the notes in the jars that have the blue, _cyan_ , sea glass in them mixed with the seashells that have jagged edges that weren't too pretty, but reminded her of herself. They're all buried amidst the sharp edges contrasting to the dullness of the glass.

She pulls out one, a moment-, unraveling the twine.

"Moment 7.

A woman wielding a chainsaw is something in my twenty-eight years on this earth that I never thought I'd have the pleasure of witnessing. It was a hot-, apologies love, fucking hot afternoon and I heard a rumbling from across the road. My curiosity got the best of me and I followed the sound to your backyard. You were...scant of clothes below the waist save for that little red pair of panties I'm quite fond of as of late, wearing a loose white t-shirt that I'm sure now was mine, pirate. Holding the live chainsaw to a poor, innocent tree that had and I quote "blocked the view of the full moon" and pissed you off greatly. It was in that moment that I felt utterly terrified of you, but knew also that you-, Emma Swan, would be a woman that I would not forget. Not even when I'm 95 and senile, clutching onto the last bits of my memories from my youth-, grasping to the last tendrils of my life."

-;-

It's another one of those lazy Sundays she loves. She finds herself holed up on the couch watching the weather channel while he sits in a chair near the fireplace working on a crossword puzzle. He asks her from time to time for assistance on something that's _'particularly hard to deduce a proper answer.'_

She never figures it out, but she enjoys the pinch between his brows and the slight scowl that escapes his lips after her fifth lame attempt at helping.

Around noon when her bones are still lazy and her body is stretched and warm, he pulls out a polaroid that Mary Margaret had given them. He snaps pictures of her like this, all worn socks trailing at her ankles-, his shirt riding up her thighs, her hair a mess splayed out across the pillows. Sometimes he joins her in these moments captured on film, sneaking a kiss to her cheek just as the camera flashes.

They line the hallways, hung from twine and clothespins. She hangs the moments and reasons he's handwritten between them as she opens them.

Reason 2 resides by her favorite snapshot. It's blurry but it's one she captured. Him at the sink, hands wrist deep in bubbles scrubbing at a pan she had burnt while trying to make dinner. She snuck up behind him and said _'hey, guess what._ ' He continued to scrub at the pan that was long past saving, muttering out a slew of curses at the soap he had trusted to remove anything. He ignored her but she continued with _'I love you.'_ He turned quickly, his eyebrows raised-, jaw dropping, mouth ajar. She snapped the photo of that moment and went about hanging it. She chose reason two because...well

"My brother told me when I was six that love was the rarest treasure of all. I was too young to understand why for I knew that I had plenty of it. I loved him, my family, my friends-, and love in my life only grew from there. My love expanded from friends and family to a different kind when I found the woman I later married. Love changed-, but it was always a constant in my life. It wasn't until I started losing things that I realized that love is something I took advantage of. I had a plethora of it, and it wasn't until I lost it and the feeling of it that I realized what Liam had said was true. Meeting you I learned that some people aren't as lucky as I was.

You told me once, some night when the power had gone out and lightning shone in bursts through our bedroom window allowing me small glances at your face, that no one had ever said those words to you. You didn't know what love was, or what it felt like-, you had assumed that that...asshole gave you love. You assumed that what you felt was love. But you said it wasn't until you met me that you realized it was just a need to be wanted. _"Is this love?"_ You asked, thunder rumbling-, hearts expanding.

And I wondered for a long time after about the meaning of it-of love. I had always had it but I never had to define it. "Love isn't just something you feel for another person, it goes beyond I love you. It's-, loving everything that makes them... them. It's loving someone's laugh, and the way they snore and hog the bed. It's loving their terrible driving and the way they sing off key in the shower. It's loving their freckles, and their imperfections, and the way they look in red. It's the look in their eyes after a long day, it's a kiss after a fight, a dance at midnight. It's really about how and why you love that amounts to that I love you." You pulled me in then, as the rain continued to pour and the lightning brought in bursts of light. _"So you love me?"_ You whispered into my chest, above my heart. "I do." And every day since then waking up next to you has been a gift. Some might say I'm a fool for thinking waking up on the edge of a bed freezing while you are spread out and warm beneath the entire comforter is far from a gift, but it is. I never looked forward to going to bed because it meant having to wake up and relive the previous day. It was a never ending cycle-, I was trained to be alone and I grew attached to the feeling of monotony in replacement of love. Because of you I realized the importance of it, and because of you I will treasure this feeling and show you everyday a new reason why I do love you."

Her hands trail over the words that she's read a hundred times now, almost committed to her memory. She looks at the expanse of this trail of memories they've created, following the walls curves and corners. She never thought she'd have this or want this.

Her life once fit inside an old cigar box, just small fragments of her life she clutched onto to have something to leave behind. Meaningless objects-, reminders of old wounds and struggles.

Now she enjoys all this proof-,the vastness of things and photographs and pieces she's collected over these past two years amounting to more than the past twenty-seven years combined. Displayed rather than hidden.

It's never been about what she has with Killian-, it's more about what he allowed her to be.

The best version of herself-, someone who is capable of being loved and loving in return.

-;-

It's two years later when the newness of their-, thing had subsided, when she asks him to the Valentine's Dance again.

It's different now, there's no distance-, she's in their bedroom getting ready and he's waiting for her impatient as ever, calling out that they're going to be late.

(They aren't.)

She takes her time going down the steps in her heels, dress swaying around her knees. He's standing at the base of the stairs wearing a smile Times Square would be jealous of and a suit of all things, holding a single buttercup.

He claims she's a vision in red, and even though she's sure she's heard him say that a hundred million times it still makes her blush. He tucks the flower into her hair, runs his fingers over her cheek, down to her shoulder where it settles as he takes in the sight of her.

"You look…," he's all breathless and gentlemanly, and she's almost positive a tear is creeping out of the corner of his left eye.

"I know," she gives him a twirl, smirking at the sight of him looking completely bewitched.

She asks the DJ to play an old favorite of theirs,

 _I want to know what love is, I want you to show me_

 _I want to feel what love is, I know you can show me_

 _I'm gonna take a little time, a little time to look around me_

 _I've got nowhere left to hide, it looks like love has finally found me_

 _In my life there's been heartache and pain_

 _I don't know if I can face it again_

 _Can't stop now, I've traveled so far, to change this lonely life_

 _I want to know what love is, I want you to show me_

 _I want to feel what love is, I know you can show me_

 _I want to know what love is, I want you to show me_

 _I want to feel what love is_

 _I know you can show me_

He laughs into her hair, muttering _"I should have known."_

They sway through the crowd of kids scrunching their noses at this old people music. They end up being the only couple on the floor after a minute or two, under the bouncing colored lights-, heart to heart.

She steals him away, locking him in a stall in the boys bathroom. She's got a flask strapped to her hip that he retrieves, forgoing his gentlemanly ways as his fingers pull at it, lingering on her thighs. He stands up, not before doing a little more exploring-, leans down and whispers _"pirate"_ into her ear.

She feels like a teenager again, making out in a bathroom as the music hums through the walls, a dull roar in her ears as he pulls up her dress.

It all makes sense in that moment-,

The kiss at midnight, the years that followed, all amounting from that one second of courage she had to summon to have all of this.

One second led to this forever.

-;-

She thinks that their story won't have a and they lived happily ever after after the last passage. It'll be more like Harry Potter. "All was well," no true ending.

That's how she want's her story to end.

September is a weird month. Summer is trying it's damnedest to stick it out, but fall is rearing it's head and giving it a run for it's money. It's hot and cold and all over the place. It's a transition month, and she doesn't really favor the in between feeling.

She has the need for an adventure, some night when the leaves she had noted piling up on their porch crunch under her feet when she gets home from work.

"Let's go." She pleads to him, as he stares at her from across the table midway through dinner.

"Where?" He asks, settling his silverware down-,a smile playing on his lips

"Listen-, you keep me...grounded. No-, anchored. Ship puns. It's my turn." A wave of her hands, quick to jump to her feet she's already got her keys in her hand.

"Your turn?" He makes a move to clear the table, she swats at his hands and he gives her a glare before sighing in defeat.

"To teach you how to fly Jones." She grabs his restless hands (their need to clean and arrange) and calms them with her grip.

"And what exactly does flying with Emma Swan entail?" He follows her out the door, foregoing the cleaning.

"You'll see."

They end up twenty miles outside of Storybrooke in some other forgotten small town. Just like it, though-, she had found it on a map and sought it out for it's quiet appeal.

But the town isn't the destination. The dingy, dimly lit tattoo parlor they're sitting outside of is.

The guy at the counter has a toothpick hanging out of his mouth, a beard that's frizzy and gray, and eyes that narrow at the sight of _'them two city folk.'_ But he's kind, and he's got a good laugh (she only heard it when she announced she's got a virgin with her.)

Killian looks completely bamboozled by this whole situation, but she knows he'd follow her to the ends of the earth because he's an idiot like that.

She knows he assumes that they're here for her, to add to the ink that travels across her skin reflecting the miles she's gone in this life. Each a memory of a different place, a different feeling, a different part of this story she's been writing. But this chapter is different, this pitstop on her journey isn't one she's found alone. She pulls him aside after she hands the drawing to the artist.

"I don't want to get married. Ever. And I'm not sure what this is-, what we are. But tattoos are my way of saying that this moment-, this thing...us, you-, is important to me. They're my roadmap." She grasps his hands and trails his fingers over the buttercup on her wrist, raises it to press against the swallow stretched across her chest. Moves it to her shoulder where a compass is hidden. A moment of touch and wandering-, their origins still buried but she knows he's explored them with his lips before, never questioning them.

"And I think I've reached my final destination."

The rest of the words didn't have to be said. A ceremony wasn't necessary, nor was a contract, or flowers, or a dress. Vows didn't have to be exchanged, a kiss wasn't needed. Just needle to skin, the burn of the ink embedding itself forever above the veins of their wrists. A promise in and of itself.

An anchor to keep her grounded.

A cloud to remind him that she'll be the wings that help him fly.

-;-

Some time later, much much later.

When years have passed and the hallways of their home have filled with photographs and the seaglass and shells once held in jars now hang on lights strung on their porch, long after their yard had been trimmed and that swingset fixed, they're asked by friends-,

"Will you two _ever_ get married?"

His hand will be in hers, and his thumb will rub circles into the aging tattoo adorning her wrist, they'll exchange a smile, a million words handed to the other in a single glance-, a single second.

"No." They'll say in unison, accidentally-, coincidentally.

They'll drive home in her beat up bug who's headlight still falls out from time to time. They'll play that song of hers she loves with the dreamcatcher from another life swaying between them.

They'll laugh at their secret, held in their hearts and burned onto their wrists.

They'll love each other till their skin has aged and wrinkled, the tattoos barely visible-, just shadows on the skin. He'll kiss it once, twice-, And she'll still fall in love with him even more.


	3. A Stellar Addition

**She's the Tear in my Heart** (Extras Part 1)

 _Summary: Sometimes forever is just one second_

 _A Stellar Addition_

 _There's always a part of a story that never makes the final cut but still needs to be said. I felt like this was one of them. Send me an ask on tumblr if you have a prompt for me._

* * *

According to Emma she wasn't planned, no.

According to Killian-, _"the stars were aligned"_ and all that jazz.

The she they are referring to is-, well, it starts with this.

They both agreed on one thing-, nothing about their relationship was planned ( _"it was a collision of stars"_ is added as an afterthought by Killian each time they are forced to discuss the happenings of this thing they have.)

They had tried to keep their relationship fairly hidden-, until a certain Christmas gift made it's reappearance eight months later in the form of a baby (" _tiny human,"_ as Emma likes to call her) of all things.

The discovery happened on Valentine's Day-, and ended with Killian receiving six stitches due to him falling over and hitting his head on the counter. Emma had thought nonchalantly mentioning it in between bites of dinner would be the most tactful way of announcing this...development of...a fetus. Killian thought otherwise-, (the a scar on his forehead says otherwise, rather.)

He had gone all out for this, their fourth year together.

She wasn't really about celebrating this holiday, or anniversaries, or anything romantic. But she let him have this one day of spoiling her, this one day of letting his romantic side free.

She figured it was romantic, sort of-, right? To reveal the news on his seemingly favorite day of the year. She thought she'd take a page out of his book and be romantic or whatever-, even though she wasn't the best when it came to speaking her mind.

So yeah, maybe saying _"pass the bread-, and oh! Shit, right...I'm pregnant."_ in hindsight wasn't actually as romantic as she thought it sounded.

("You damn near _ended_ my life, Swan." He murmured with peas pressed to his temple, his shirt covered in blood-, a smile on his face.

"Uh huh, drama queen. Keep icing it, Jones." She said, biting her lip while watching him look at her like he's seeing her for the first time. "And happy Valentine's Day." He never got over it, not really. Every Valentine's Day after that he'd shoot her side eye glances and made sure to stay away from sharp objects and corners of counters.)

-;-

She wasn't ever really sure what she was hoping for as they sat in the exam room on the day of the gender reveal, the tiny thing they had created more evident every day. An embodiment of their love, she knows-, but she had this once, once upon a time. Her heart told her a boy would be nice-, but memories of another time, of a son she once had haunted her. It should have terrified her when she began to notice the familiar symptoms, it should have made her run and scream and it should have made her question everything.

But the feeling she got after seeing those two pink lines didn't make her feel seventeen again. Seeing them made her feel...happy.

And yeah-, she still thinks about that baby boy with brown hair and she still hears the sounds of his cries and even feels the bite of the cuffs tearing at her skin. She wonders where he is, wonders what his name is and if he sucks at math like her. She wonders if he wonders why she gave him up, and if he would understand why she did it. She still feels conflicted about being happy with having another kid after giving him up. She isn't sure she deserves this second chance.

She didn't tell Killian about him until it got to be too much-, when the idea of having a boy was too much. She was eighteen, he reminded her. Eighteen and alone and the choice she made was selfless. She gave that baby his best chance-, one she knew she couldn't give him.

Killian wanted a girl even before she told him about her son. He didn't have to tell her for her to know. His eyes trailing across tiny dresses, little bows, glittery shoes and tiaras told her what his mouth never did. He wasn't sure what he hoped for he would tell her-, despite his fixation on those objects suited for a princess.

But a girl was what they were blessed with.

Maybe next time, she thought-, then realized she was already thinking about doing all of this again while they're daughter was still cooking. Maybe next time a boy would be nice.

(He agreed.)

It really wasn't until Emma was showing that people-, Mary Margaret to be specific, realized how seriously unserious they were about this whole thing-, as Emma likes to call it.

Four years had passed-, Mary Margaret could sense that something was amiss about Emma's sudden wardrobe change from leather to loose tees. She'd narrow her eyes, sneaking glances at every opportunity while whispering to townsfolk asking if they knew anything.

"She's a handful today." Emma proclaimed once, hand falling to her stomach instinctively as she sipped on her hot chocolate.

"I knew it!" Was shouted from across the diner, where Mary Margaret had hidden herself behind Leroy.

Suddenly the whole diner exploded with people rejoicing-, and also people passing money from bets that were placed. She claimed it was pregnancy brain that made the words slip.

Killian says otherwise, as usual.

-;-

He bought fifteen baby name books as her due date rolled closer-, carefully circled on the calendar of course, in bright pink ink.

Lazy Sundays once filled with lollygagging and crosswords were now spent hunched over books in the library, tucked up on the window seat as a summer breeze flitted through the windows. He put a checkmark next to the ones he favored while she stuck to underlining-, (and crossing out the one's he had checked that she disagreed with.)

"Our daughter will not be name anything of or relating to the sea, Jones." She mumbled, while scribbling over the name _Celeste_.

"Nautical nonsense, darling-, fear not." He hummed, circling _Nerissa_ while hiding his smile.

"Or the stars." She added, eyeing him from over the book that was perched in her lap.

"We'll see about that."

-;-

Stella made her entrance into this world three weeks early on the hottest day in August, a Leo just like her father.

"Typical." Emma had declared, eyes half lidded, lazy smile playing on her lips. A quick delivery, nearly in the elevator-, their daughter was as impatient as Killian dreamed she'd be. He held her close in that quiet moment, after the doctors and nurses had filed out, watching her closely as her tiny fingers wrapped around his pointer with such strength for such a tiny thing.

"The stars don't lie." He whispered, as he kissed the crown of their daughter's head-, messy curls already evident.

-;-

As Stella grew they found that she takes after Killian in looks-, from her blue eyes and raven hair, to her ears that point at the tips. Everything else is decidedly Emma-, she's determined, courageous, and she's got a mouth that runs a mile a minute now.

He's quite thankful, though, for the dip in Stella's chin, and the freckles that scatter across her nose, and for the bits of green and gold that are only evident in her left eye.

A perfect mingling of all the good parts of themselves transferred to their daughter.

She's quite taken with Emma's beanie-, even though as the years have passed it has worn out and the stitching has come loose in some places. She enjoys pulling it down over her mother's face-, something Killian had done a lot of that she most likely picked up from watching him. She loves her mother's laugh, yet another inherited trait he's more than fascinated with, and the little lass knows she'll hear it when she tugs at the beanie.

He finds a smaller version after work one day, passing by the shops lit up for Christmas. It's in that window he found the swan Emma still treasures, but now resides in their daughter's bedroom.

 _"It's special," he heard her whisper some night not too long ago-, when a cold had taken hold of Stella and she barely slept. "Daddy gave this to me when we first met, so keep it safe."_

It's soft white with a pom pom atop it just like Emma's. He returns home and hears Stella's feet running-, stomping across the floor. She rounds the corner, nearly slipping before she crashes into him.

"Hello little love," he kneels down, she's a hurricane of affection-, hands reaching to cup his cheeks that softly move down his jaw.

He pulls it from the bag, holds it out to her-, her eyes alight as she takes it and puts it on.

"I'm mommy!" She declares, pulling at the strings and spinning haphazardly. It fits perfectly-, concealing her curls and bits of her small face. She's a gaggle of slurred words and her laugh echoes through the halls as she looks up to him with utter admiration-, she's a total daddy's girl, Emma claims-, and she's without a doubt correct about that.

"What are you two doing in there?" Emma calls from the kitchen, he places his pointer on his lips signaling to Stella to be quiet and she obliges, throwing her hands over her mouth-, wiggling her toes in delight. He scoops her up and carries her to where Emma is cooking-, burning, dinner.

"Mommy look." She stretches her hands wide, displaying herself to Emma with pride as Killian adjusts the hat that's falling into her eyes. Emma turns, eyes rolling at the sight of their princess.

"Your father is ridiculously obsessed with us in hats." She murmurs, extending her hands to free Stella from her father's hold. She tugs at the strings, head cocking as she takes in the sight of her.

He exits the room to retrieve Emma's that hangs in the hall-, amidst the tiny leather jackets that mingle and mix with their own.

"There we are," he announces, once he places it rightfully on her head to match her daughter.

"How do we look?" She asks, just before Stella gives the beanie her mother is wearing a firm tug, concealing her eyes.

"Hey! Jones, you trained her to do that didn't you?" She calls from beneath the fabric as Stella continues to hold tight.

"Perhaps." He reaches for the polaroid resting on the counter, snapping a picture of the two of them.

"I swear to _God_ -," she growls, noting the flash.

He moves towards them, nodding to Stella to release the fabric. He pulls it up and she's narrowing her eyes, biting her lip, scowling and pouting.

They take Stella on her favorite journey-, through the halls of their home where their love story is is displayed. They hang the new picture in one of the few empty spots that are left, Emma's eyes dancing over the memories. Stella's tiny hands grab at the pictures, the notes, the dried flowers, and that medal Emma won all those years ago when this story began.

They tell her the story of the pirate and the princess-, thief, Emma corrects-, and how certain things had to fall apart for them to fall in love.

-;-

When she's thirty-six there's a knock on her door.

His name is _Henry_ and-,

He's good at math.

He's got his father's eyes but her smile and freckles scattered across his nose.

He tells her with Stella in his lap, already _six_ -, and a grin on his face all about his parents, the colleges he's applied to, the part time job he has. He's smart, and good and everything she ever wanted him to be.

They tell Stella together that he's her brother and her nose crinkles the way Killian's does when he's confused. After careful explanation avoiding the birds and the bees talk, she accepts the information with the gentleness of any six year old.

"Okay so that means that you and daddy will protect me from bad guys right?"

Emma rolls her eyes and shoots Killian a look, while Henry laughs and tells Stella _"of course."_

When they finally have a moment alone, when the world starts spinning again and her head doesn't' feel as full and heart slows he brings her outside. He tells her quietly after a moment of pause that he understands, and doesn't resent her for giving him up.

"Emma-, I'm eighteen." He says with a laugh, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking at the leaves that are piling. He shrugs and steals a look at her.

"I didn't get it at first. I spent a long time questioning it as a kid. But I get it now. I'm glad you're happy."

She doesn't have the right words to say to him, even though she's thought about this moment a hundred times. Rehearsed what she would say a hundred times. So she does what she knows Killian would do, she hugs him. He settles himself in her grasp, releasing the breath he'd been holding. He fits there, in her arms and for a minute she's back in that hospital room holding him again as a newborn. She savors the feeling of his hair beneath her palm, the smell of his cologne, the feel of his heart pressing against hers.

It's a quick goodbye filled with promises of visits, and phone calls-, birthday parties and summer trips.

-;-

Killian doesn't speak of it when they're tucked in bed that night. She doesn't talk about it either, not yet-, not now when it's still so _new_ and _real_ and too much but _enough_ and a lot-, he knows her well enough now to know that silence isn't a bad thing.

She settles into her favorite spot with her head against his bare chest, his arms lazily trailing up and down her arm. The gentle thrum of his heart keeps her grounded, _sane_ -, calm.

Stella joins them some time later, when the autumn air starts making the old house _creak_ and groan and _monsters-,_ are threatening her from beneath her bed. She wedges herself between the two and squirms about until she finds just the right spot, huffing a sigh as she nuzzles against Killian's chest.

"Just like her mom." Killian whispers over her, his hand extending to brush that damn curl from her face.

"You love us." She retorts, as she reaches for his hand, stopping him from playing with her hair-, fingers smoothing over the tattoo on his wrist.

"I do." He whispers, eyes heavy.

" _Forever?"_ She half jokes, nudging his leg from beneath the comforter.

"And ever," he rolls his eyes and nudges her back while muttering something about _"damming her cold toes to hell."_

Eighteen years she spent running-, her demons finally settled that night.


End file.
